It starts there in the quiet; in the quiet and the cold Descending like a shadow, seeping slow into my soul. Resigned and mute, I feel it come, a thief into my home,
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
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