Bitter Suite

Music can be a dangerous thing

The Cellist

Once, the cellist was a child Eyes mirroring Scandinavian skies Born with wildfire in his soul, they said The majesty of the firs in his bearing His skin the whitest snow-dusted taiga
Cherry

Play Her

In the music-room with the lights turned low You sink into an armchair Leather caress like skin on skin Embers dance in the dying fire. The needle traces a delicate sphere