Being expert on the zither
he gave concerts twice a winter

And to these occasions twain
some would come unless it rained.

Swiftly did their number thin
as he played The Ice-Blue Wind.

No cries of Bravo nor encore
But, Oh, he dreamed, they long for more!

So he’d play it once again
and again and still again.

His fingers knew The Ice-Blue Wind
that single score and nothing more.

But what of that? It did suffice
to close him in a wall of ice,

Tinged with distance, always blue,
which somehow warmed him through and through.

Long, long after all had gone,
and in the hall crept winter dawn,

He would strike a final string,
take a bow and proudly shin

Up a column to the roof,
in union with The Absolute.