they say blind-solipsism is in the air, the radio speakers
keep announcing a return of a mozart,
they glorify the death of classical music
as if it were still alive and worthy a prodigy
to keep a lineage, and it is so, but only
in terms of imitation rather than composition,
like the philologist able to read ancient greek
or latin, these imitators merely revive from dead
script the breathable air from the cluster of fading ink,
than providing a revival from scripts not yet written.*

once the masters of woodwinds brass
and horse-mane hairs tightened
and scratched against violin and cello
strings: now masters of solely drums,
and how the beatified contrast resounds:
the former with music soothing
but the soul warring,
now the latter with music rousing
but the soul pacified,
once masters of orchestral arrangement,
now masters of their own destiny of
individuated chaos... once the music
of the element of air... now the music
of the element of earth - the heavy stomping
excess of drums.