There I sit in a lonely room.
Scribbling a silky thread.
I look up at the mountain so tall.
The task fills me with dread.

I let the page fall at my heel,
The needle to and fro.
I have reached the great wall.
My breath begins to slow,

What makes you pull the rose?
That rose?
But only one...
Then appears your grin again.
She makes you play Chaconne.

The bow plays the sinews
Of mine Heart.
To stitch the seams
Of this fine Art.

Beads of sweat drip from my brow.
Struggle through the mountain pass.
Duet of cloths in unity
Catch quick, quick to hear my brass.

GRAHAM MURPHY