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Heart In Space
(On Bach Cello Suite 3, C major )
I can see it there, hanging in space,
in the midst of all the Universes;
a heart, removed, isolated from its body.
Now suspended and stark, as post-autopsy
or exhumation. Just "there", unconnected
to anything, everything. Meaningless.
I am floating near to it, observing it.
I can draw as close to it as I care to,
and from any direction. It knows I approach.
I see how it knows, how it is being held:
in apparent empty space there are millions
of nearly-invisible threads running to it,
through it,
into it,
out of it,
to and fro in Infinite Space.
Each thread seems to be a memory, or
a true promise, or
a sweet grief, or
an occasion to remember, or
recall what happened to this heart.
Each tendril is so deeply implanted
in this heart, that they each quiver
with its pulse, and re-enforce every beat,
and every movement of their own.
All of them are alive,
each with the throbbing of the heart.
A certain few of them seem to ring
like crystal bells,
chiming and rhyming
as their part of memory is stirred.
This stimulates the heart
even more than before, and
a radiation of sympathetic notes,
symbols of recollection,
begins spreading
into all the other strings,
the innumerable strings
which lead off into
the whole Universe.
Lovely music fills my ears,
my own body sympathetically vibrates,
and my own soul sings in Joy!
I think if I would try
to stop this beautiful song
by breaking all the strings,
it would take one-million years.
One-million years of breaking,
and of forgetting.
Then, and ONLY then would
the mesmerizing music cease,
and the incredibly beautiful heart
tragically die.
