Symphony No. 7

The clouds formed
with the first movement,
darkened with the second,
and advanced in a line
with the third
and forth.

They followed
as I drove home,
as I opened the door,
as I slipped under the covers.

They hovered
as I closed my eyes,
as I played the notes again in my mind,
as I came to these questions:

Which is more of a man:
the one looking down from the top
or the one looking up from the bottom?

Who is this woman
in the music?

Who is the impostor:
the one standing next to her
or the one next to whom she stands?

With these,
I heard the first few drops
and then the rain came in waves
as everything that had accumulated
emptied itself into the streets.

We take that which is ...

We take that which is beautiful
to be true,
that which is beautiful,
but not true,
to be excusable,
that which is ugly
to be false,
that which is ugly,
but not false,
to be ordinary.

We take what we have for granted
and we take what we do not have ...

we take what we do not have.

Those few who give
are drained
and those many who take
are never satisfied.

What do we do, then?

We give
only to those who give
and we never take ...

we never take.