One day, I was coming back to my room,
in he first years I was working,
forced every day to splash, knee-deep,
in the mud of countless numbers:
i had a vinyl record in my hands
(at those times, the music could be heard
only that way, or with musicassettes),
in that long-playing there were
the Goldberg variations, on Bach's themes, thirty.
sitting under the weight of daily evil,
i heard a superhuman good, e harmony
that cannot be perceived in this world,
because only a God could have inspired
so much beauty, so much sublime order
to make you doubt whether it could exist.
it came then to me to think that
a God like that one certainly exists,
but I felt afraid to consider how far
he stays away from many latrin fillers,
and how much of his heavenly glory
had to remain distilled in that creature:
johann Sebastian Bach.
was it ever possible that a man
who could compose the real God' music,
was also forced to breath, to digest, sweat,
to calculate the money to be paid
to the butcher, the baker, the tailor,
like all the other human monkeys?
yes, it was possible, and that miracle
was afterwards repeated many times.