That it begins.
And like a wave which appears
only to lose itself

in dispersal, rising whole again
yet incomplete in all but
form, it returns.

Music. The true magic.

Each day the sun passes over the river,
bringing warmth to it. Such

devotion inspires movement: a cello in the
darkness, the passage of sparrows. Sighs.

The currents are of our own
making. If we listen do we also

hear? These bodies. These silent voices.


33 thoughts on “Requiem

  1. Bob, as always the best part for me in reading your poetry is passing from ignorance to understanding…or at least appreciation on a higher plane. Even the title is such a lovely and integral part of the whole! Magnificent work, my good friend!


    Liked by 2 people

  2. Another beauty, Bob. In my novel “The City Has Many Faces, a love story about Mexico City,” I have a short chapter about Salvador, the music man of Coyoacán who, beginning on his father’s hurdygurdy, became a violinist who enchanted everyone with his playing. Music is an enchantress and so, in my imagination, was Salvador. Thank you for sharing your poem.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Magnificent, RO — I’ve been listening to so much classical music lately (inspiration for my novel in progress) and experiencing that magic so often that at the most random (and not always convenient) times I’ll hear passages in my head and feel completely cut loose in time. Your poem captures that feeling very well…

    Liked by 1 person

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