1920s, Hungarian school

the sky is filled with Rorschach blots
candy clouds
and future selves
why do they wave
why do they wisp
why do they lisp about the stars
that seem so crisp when night arrives
like future lives all burning bright

the tautest string will move the spheres
circling between our ears
the notes are stored between the bows
by maple, spruce, glue soft and old;
when you have no more to release
and nothing more to try to hold to
farewell future, so long past
rippled runs on old panes of glass
what did you see what did you perceive
say it all once more to me