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 new edifice:
heartache and humour, hope despite affliction
were there in his soul ever flowering into life.
As if from Florestan's dungeon,
we are lead to questioning doubt,
before fiery energy erupts in feats of dazzling display.
A plea, a haunting memory explores strange regions;
obsessive motive, heartfelt whisper
come before decisive menacing assault.
A quiet musing follows, perhaps a lullaby,
or prayerful communing in face of his life's travail.
From that note of simplicity gradual proliferation
towards crazed rhythm from pages black with notes,
a manic dance of life, or death, jazz discovered,
fiendish, unrelenting,
then last, yielding to delicacy,
the melody wreathed in filigree,
lingering end of the epic journey,
for him the unfolding of
'the moral law within,
the starry heavens above.'
*Beethoven, opus 111