Twenty five years
later,
back to vinyl...
oh! crackles...
hisses! ,
how I've missed
the great excuse,
from sheer overuse...
and the mystery
owner, whether
alive still or not...
these pressings
are old as I,
and yet glimmer back,
black lacquered,
the grooves freshly
cut looking, and a bright
sheen changing as you move...
whether I'm in
both Barenboim's head,
or the Great Composer's
even the original owner's,
as the needle etches
it's way along
these feint tracks,
now I'm weeping
in all different rooms,
a ghostly transience...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem