Philip Glass - The Poet Acts
(It bursts. Open. A wind.
A small crack of such streamings. The pain somewhere in between. The subtle animosity.
A shift in tone.
Once again, but stronger now. Long, sharper string thread. A bold march through a field of dark gray notes, leaning against your legs, warm somehow.
Let it bloom. Let it swallow. Me. I go.
This is how it comes, this is how it disappears; stronger, weaker. Tidal refrain. I along.
Once again. Once again. Still at the same pauses as first, but so much more now, so much more.
Until it dies a moment, into less.
Only to come back again. A rephrase, a thought. Still those same notes. Endless field. Leaning slower. In the wind.
Straw and straw and straw. All added, all joining. The march. As with a million feet. Under hidden faces, staring at the ground. This will never end. I hope this will never end.
The cold stream like sea pier wind enwrapping encasing cutting around desperate certain feet.
Until only wind. And off.)