Modern man does not listen to the melody, nor the harmony, so he loses the motion. A subject connects to the episode, embodied. But its complexity, lost, finds no mouth to imbibe the potion. Offertoire. To whom? A deaf ear lost to the music swirled. Lasting resonance, finds rest only with the poor listener. I understand. Notes confound the distracted soul ensorcelled. Old masters wait not for modern minds to find beauty, prisoner.
