The Fan's Request:
Why, my love, have you played upon my heart as you
would four strings set at intervals apart?
Such are the distances that separate me from you:
my heart, my soul, my mind, my resolve . . .
Never could these four blend into a consonance that
might afford my life some rest and tranquility.
You cannot simply make innocent music as do the
musicians of mediocrity: you have created fire,
You have conjured spirits without number; your
body has become a writhing machine possessed.
You bring down the house along with my once
placated expectations that nothing could
Ever sweep me away, forcing a burning desire
that I be the instrument upon which you play.
The Musician's Reply:
Do you, My Love, hear the music that plays unique for you?
I sense an effete populace that hangs upon the sonorous
Wailings of the violon that at one with me has become, but
You -- you like a queen enthroned in the balcony above --
Will you descend upon the wings of Cupid himself to take
Your place at my side as together we enwrap ourselves in
The sweetest and most passionate musical embrace that
E'er has graced the stage and within the Proscenium falls?
