This space is filled with
endless rests; a caesura
would have been more
kind. I count them
swiftly, as an amateur:
they are no more musical
to me than are the double
bar lines. My lips tremble
at the fermata, fingers
wishing to fly, tongue
wishing to dance. A
single look from you
holds me back, quelling
my desire, begging me
to keep my silence until
it is time. You know
the music far more than
I, and I will follow you
to the end as I am bound --
as are we all -- to you,
Maestro.
