Bach

Johann Sebastian, I have been, many times inside your house. First with the school, then with the Musikus of Eisenach, in Spring. There is the castle, with the old spot of fifteenth century ink, and dusty pages where Martin Luther and his own devil stretched the strings of his companion, the violin handmade in Klingenthal. He never did impress a single one, nor did the devil stay to listen to the sounds. I must admit that I, who was expected to take up what seemed so natural and pre-ordained, the music that you had begun, and which would live far longer than the bible or its dust. But we have failed you, the countless souls who recognised but were unable to fully master the discipline so it remains for you to watch and listen and in the end, to nod.