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Symphonatas

I  

Beneath flickering station lights on a rain-slick platform,  

I slip on over-ear headphones—warm against restless nights—  

Ludwig, that wild mane of white-crowned hair, arrives  

with his Fifth’s thunder, the Ninth’s exultant chorale,  

and Moonlight’s hushed lament echoing grief-laced dusk.  

II  

Yet—speakers hushed, those sonatas bloom within:  

I first heard the Ninth at my father’s funeral,  

its exultant chorus a balm for silent tears.  

Now each movement lives indelibly in my chest—unplugged, unwavering.