You must feel the heartbreak in the minor chord
You must feel the urgency of perfect pitch
From a choir echoing in the catacombs
You must praise the bees heavy with pollen
Whose buzzing is an engine of spinning wings
You must stare into the eyes of the Odalisque
You must embrace the lions engorged with meat
And allow the crippled vultures to eat the bones
You must accept the cruel indifference of pain
Which screams and cries in wordless shock
You must rejoice in lust and nakedness
You must allow yourself to spin to samba
When the carnival passes with surdo drums
You must not settle for cheap sentiment
There must be fire in your words when you speak
You must know the joy of practice and repetition
And the physical connection between the dancer
And the sound as the musician and the instrument
You must praise the tall mountains and forests
And the sound of water in tickled streams
You must share the breath of wind on ocean waves
You must be filled with mystery from ancient ruins
You must see the moon as a flower
Each phase illuminated in a major key

But you can’t play if the metronome ticks
No you won’t play with the blood
Instead you will be a prisoner of time
If you don’t see beauty in spiders and snakes
If you live for a past that never was
And denied yourself forbidden love
If you can’t bear to sit through Rigoletto
Or ride a bike to the strings of Pergolesi
Don’t even try to play with the blood