Tchaikovsky: Symphony No. 5
in E minor, Op. 64
From the moment the orchestra begins
until the last magnificent chord,
I am playing and being played,
stretching myself from low notes to high notes.
It is wine from the glass into my mouth,
a rambunctious exuberance,
stirred in a realm of detached frenzy.
What is the way to pray
when there is no translation?
When I would have so much to say?
I’m left with only the continuous rhythm
of my aching, pounding heart.
From: In Transition
Unpub. MS p. 29
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