What was this unarticulated joy
that beat inside my chest?
That which was expected and is past
reflected numens chanting to my spirit,
as if subdivided in my superconsciousness,
I may not bear them as a whole
though holy they may be...
one mystery selects a lifetime as its drum
and makes the years crescendo
poco a poco from its infancy
unto the crashing storm of age
when breath itself implodes.
I think it is too much--
a joy the mind at quest must know
and not to be endured.
I think a man must shake his fist
in protest as Beethoven did,
unable to sustain it to the end.
It is the depth and height of ecstasy
of which its single aim
is to expire.