SERENADE:ON THE DEATH OF SHOSHTAKOVICH
three chords, like lilies
will blossom on the crystal air
but farther away, not like the last time,
the school of Russian music.
another April will come
finer than the ones before
all daphnean in the wood;
the violin subsides.
the viola forgets the metronome.
the stars sing, regardless.
mary angela douglas 17 january 2024
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