Mozart - Clarinet Quintet in A, K. 581 [complete]
Waiting for D.
Thinking of D.
Yearning for D.
D. is gone. Those years are gone.
Both dead, like Mozart.
A place I still go to,
not just to remember who he was
but who I was
and still am
and be reminded of what,
like certain music in life
(it's not all noise)
is always there.
Nostalgia attack! It all
comes flooding back
But you don't want to go back,
even if you could.
(Exchange it for the now? Who would? and how?)
You're not the same,
and yet you are
. . . mostly.
Saved-up scenes from flecks of past
murmur out between the notes.
How sad and melancholy then,
how absolutely wrong at times,
as if I somehow knew but didn't; and when
finding so, look back and think,
despite it all
I've no regrets.
Rehear the melody, close the book. It's done.
The Now, of which the Then is part, all one,
layered, accessible,
turnonable or offable,
like
Self.
