The Turangalila-Symphonie Of Messiaen Poem by Liza Sud

I'm scared to hear myself in Messiaen.
Where whistling of the Waves of Marteno,
And joy moves in a spiral, jubilance,
There is no me. But I hear - like a god.

After all, He's not visibile in space,
But He exists - in mirroring, beyond,
under the sounds my hearing extends,
And the surjective image is absorbed.

Prostration. And Amazement. It is bliss.
The great Messiaen knows how to Be,
And g flat and F sharp are there for death
And life combined yin-yang, and there is

a point in semicircle of everyone,
And both are like Isolde and Tristan.
And joy, and flying off, hammers, beaters
Knocking what has been into the sleepy pillows.

That's how he heard the voice of paradise,
the tone is broken in more intervals
Turanga Vaktras softly, calmly hum
Into the heaven call the hall to come,

Where miracle will open something more,
A revolution will take place in soul.
God will descend, and man will disappear,
A man will disappears, God will go.

And in panspermia sprayed by the Light
Do you want to be the Spirit? A part?
Reflected Equally, Bijective one -
The mutual ray of the high cosmic Love.

It is as new and fresh as the Rebirth,
the Statue of the Law, the flower bursts
From the chaos of night awakening
A timid, the first petal to the spring!

Collision with the Light - circumgyration,
It is the solar sphere, not a disk,
The instant takeoff climbs with admiration,
There everyone sees Light while merged with It!