Listening to Brahms
takes me to the good of childhood
when I longed to create art,
remembering days when I could dream freely.
I didn’t tell anyone about my dreams,
so no one laughed at me.
Now, I declare I still understand Brahms.
He speaks to me and I feel it in a deep zone.
But now I know
all I can do is spectate,
unable to communicate what’s inside.
I shiver in joy with the understatement
and simplicity of Brahms,
and the understatement of unequaled power.
I’d like to smoke cigars with Brahms
at the street café.
I’d plead for him to tell me
all he knows about music and life.
The end of the first Symphony,
much like the end of the second.
I lose myself.
I want to be lost forever.