by Bill Holm

    This music weeps， not for sin

    but rather for the black fact

    that we must all die， but not one

    of us knows what comes after.

    This music leaps from key to key

    as if it had no clear place to arrive，

    making up its life， one bar at a time.

    But when you come at last to the real theme，

    strict， inexorable， and bleak，

    you must play it slow and sad，

    with melancholy dignity， or you miss

    all its grim wisdom.

    In three pages， it says， the universe collapses，

    and you——still only halfway home.