You enchant me with melodic Escher staircases,
scintillating all the way up my spine into my brain.
I walk around in bewilderment so that again I have to tie my shoe laces.
Brilliant and powerful and passionate, perfect is the harmony train.
Where the notes play a strange kind of algebra;
the rich tonality echoes like a rainbow in my mind,
displacing even the darkest of shadow in the mind’s umbra,
where music, poetry and mathematics are intertwined.
Colour and light expanding mind, making room for geometrical thought,
and causing a riot with my passionate sensibilities,
evoking true love to be sought,
calculating all the probabilities and possibilities.
That your music has lived on,
that your compositions can make thine spirit alive in me,
even though thou art long gone,
that still today it can be.
Even though your heart is in an urn, in a pillar, in a church,
and no longer beating in your ribcage, in your handsome frame,
but in the ears of the mind of the beholder’s search,
your music lights mine heart aflame.
It teleports me into the past, at a time when Delacroix painted us together,
where I was an imposter in a man’s world,
freeing myself from all forms of tether,
so that my spirit could be unfurled.
In the dress of men I was free and unrestrained,
men’s clothes aside I was such a womanly woman,
your melodies unchained.
So remarkable was our acumen.
I, a French novelist,
imparting the first kiss,
always looking forward to our tryst.
I was the love of your life; eternal is this bliss.