Bach Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Johann Sebastian,
I have been, many times
inside your house.
First with the school,
then with the Musikus
of Eisenach, in Spring.

There is the castle,
with the old spot
of fifteenth century ink,
and dusty pages
where Martin Luther
and his own devil
stretched the strings
of his companion,
the violin handmade
in Klingenthal.

He never did
impress a single one,
nor did the devil stay
to listen to the sounds.

I must admit that I,
who was expected to
take up what seemed
so natural and pre-ordained,
the music that you
had begun, and which
would live far longer
than the bible or its dust.

But we have failed you,
the countless souls
who recognised
but were unable
to fully master
the discipline
so it remains for you
to watch and listen
and in the end,
to nod.