The Last Sonata
He didn't plan to pour his passion
Into all-embracing labyrinth of sound,
But to build his master's language
To a noble, brave new edifice:
Heartache and jocund humour,
Anger, laughter despite affliction
Were there in his soul
Always waiting to flower into life.
His opening gambit grand and bold,
Close followed by a questioning doubt;
Fiery energy then erupting
In feats of dazzling energy.
Next a plea, or haunting memory,
Exploration of regions strange,
Obsessive motif, heartfelt whisper,
Final menacing assault.
Then a quiet musing,
Perhaps a lullaby,
Or prayerful communing
In face of life's travail.
From that note of simplicity
A gradual proliferation
Towards crazed rhythm
From pages black with notes,
A manic dance of life, or death,
Fiendish, unrelenting.
Last, he yields to coruscating hush,
Hearing perhaps
Quiet intimation of heaven,
His harmonic journey now persisting
Through each mood until the end.
With few years remaining
The maestro imprinted
His mind on souls who will listen.
Exemplar for courage,
Pathfinder for new realms,
A companion for comfort,
And a solace for humankind.
*Beethoven, opus 111