Toccata and Fugue in D Minor

It begins with a sky-split cry— a blade of wind slicing the stillness, gulls scattering like torn pages as the sea holds its breath. Then comes the first thunderstroke, not from clouds, but from below— the ocean remembering its anger. The sea begins to speak in tongues— lightning dances across the waves. The ocean surges, climbs the wind, rising in spiraled towers of spray— a mind awakening, immense and wild. The wind and sea lock arms and spin— a wild, ecstatic pas de deux. Every crest collides with thunder, every trough inhales the sky. The air is stitched with broken wings, a fugue of fury, flawless, divine. The storm forgets its name— its fury slackens into sighs. Waves collapse with whispered awe, and the wild wind of prophecy, wanders now in broken circles. Salt mist weeps from sky to sea. A golden thread divides the clouds— light returns on cautious feet. The sea lies spent but still it stirs, gathers fragments of the sky and lays them gently on its swells, as if remembering how to sing.