Max Richter, for String Quartet
This is the language of strings, why
must it hurt? A sailor adjusts to woven
seas, but never to the way the stars seem
to touch the dark horizon. The truth is,
we are temporary. This is the language
of strings, how temporary? I love you
in the thread of each touch, the circular
stain of your coffee cup. You take my arm.
I come closer in orbit, a 100-year-comet,
burning burning through the sky. This
is the language of strings, I love you
in the wordless passage, the cellular decay.
This is the language of strings, it moves
through a field of wheat and I touch it all:
the infinite small as your hand inside