“JS Bach” by Kevin Yatsko

The rock and the stars, the rain and the ruin,

the candles that are lit, the kids that come out,

the harpsicord player that I know hath so little

to write about. From Eisenach to Ohrdruf I travel

from Luneburg to Weimar I see. Without the feather

and ink and paper, why come to Anstadt and Mulhausen,

why come to Weimar again. You pack your hymns and

concertos and are off for Kothen up north. What is a penny

in your pocket, when you have a condition for beauty.

Where is Leipzig, where is death for you, my harpsichord player?



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