Geenstijl

Het is weekend. We hebben geen program.

The celebrated windows flamed 
with light directly pouring north 
across the Seine; we rustled into place.

Then violins vaunting Vivaldi's strident strength, 
then Brahms, seemed to suck 
with their passionate sweetness, 
bit by bit, the vigor from the red, 
the blazing blue, so that the listening eye 
saw suddenly the thick black lines, 
in shapes of shield and cross and strut and brace, 
that held the holy glowing fantasy together. 
The music surged; the glow became a milk, 
a whisper to the eye, a glimmer ebbed 
until our beating hearts, 
our violins were cased in thin but solid sheets of lead.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.