The Largest of Curtains (To Dmitri Shostakovich)

Sensational death throes

Aspiring heart beats,

Grotesque reminders of the Forgetting.

Forgotten reminders,

Of Russian acts of war,

Art like the fourth,

Forced out of tune,

Turned out of time.

Twenty five years, to be exact.

Denounced denouncers

Truth-sayers and truth seekers,

Truth speaks and moulds, & even shakes in untold ways,

The foundations of

The largest of curtains.

It remains

That sound is Sound, & suites next door,

Be it preludes or fugues,

Symphonies or quartets,

Can never be, truly,

Hanged, drawn or quartered.

But remember,

The Thirteenth of anything,

Even a symphony, brings bad luck…

Nevertheless, We have faith In our overcoats

And the condemned and shameful alike,

Owe you their thanks,

If not for music then,

The life of a poet, Brodsky’s.

And so you leave us,

You leave us hearing Truth.

Ears like eyes,

No longer wide or shut.

We are the children of monstrous Men,

Are we not?

And you are,

Part Of this,

The daily soundtrack of our lives.