from The Art of Fugue, Part VI

Once again, the moment of impossible

transition, the bow, its silent voice

above the string. Let us say

the story goes like this. Let us say

you could start anywhere.

Let us say you took your splintered being

by the hand, and led it

to the centre of a room: starlight

through the floorboards of the soul.

The patterns of your life

repeat themselves until you listen.

Forgive this. Say now

what you have to say.