I float away somewhere. The anchor rose
And all through the concert swells the tide
that takes me home. But where it goes
No living soul can tell. Have I died?
or merely felt the overwhelming chord
make emptiness of all I have inside?
This would make an atheist cry: “O Lord,
I am not worthy. Merge me with thy sea!”
and not blush to find his naked truth unmoored.
Yet we compose it all, Beethoven, we
must turn your noise to music in our minds
and live it live. What was is meant to be.
I drift away. The orchestra combines.
And now I hear: This work is all Mankind’s.