Amadeus

Amadeus

In the quiet of the Hall of the Archive,
the notes of Mozart rise like amber light,
each phrase a plea, each chord a quiet shrine,
the genius of the eighteenth‑century night.

A boy unarmed by ignorance’s cruel hand,
his fingers he bent upon the keyboard’s frame,
favourite motifs like constellations stand,
his spirit a fire that would tame Rome’s flame.

His symphonies in a Roman tapestry spun,
a lively breezily – the gardens of Vienna,
the copper bells of Venice at any sun,
his dance was old yet gently something new.

He sang of love with liquid lyric, pure,
of constellations, science, and of the choir
and left a behind that smell of old dervish,
amend it – a Green Lantern at the fire.

Near Palatine, a study in to colour,
he studied storm–songs of the north wind,
topful of hope and eyes as bright as morning,
his nocturnes kiss the night like moonlit pins.

People speak his names in the same silver tongue,
he became a saint to many a heart,
in theatre houses of London and London‑grown
the humming chairs applaud each part.

Minds float and are mesmerised by his
crystal thinking of every note’s stray—
a cleared “theatre” in the moldering hearts
that only melodies that l would get away.

So younger folk may find a glimpse of that time,
a German boy who spelt out his fate,
an patron where love so smooth as rhyme
makes the world a proper, warm, amuse‑rate.

And when we mirror the old, the greater beat,
when the flourish of his furrowed mind whispers
we smoke our tea while we accept that in the front seat
simple truth – Mozart whirls the world and furnishes.