I play Haydn after a dark day
and sense an honest warmth in my hands.
The keys are willing. Mild hammers strike.
The tone is green, lively and still.
The tone says that freedom exists
and that someone does not pay the emperor tribute.
I push the hands deep into my haydnpockets,
mimicking one who quietly watches the world.
I raise the haydnflag — this means:
‘We do not surrender. But want peace.’
The music is a glasshouse on the slope
where stones fly, stones roll.
And the stones roll right through
but each pane remains whole.
