Black notes, across staves, making their waltzes.
Attempting, as do coopers
with their plied and blackened staves,
to surround immortal soul
What is the sound of drinking red wine?
What is the melody of pleasure?
In that faultless gasp of gaiety
where swindlers swindle swindlers
with their smiles and wet decanters
is the sound of sweetest life,
is the taste of finest wine,
is the kiss of warmest lips,
is the song of Nino Rota.
It’s December 3rd tonight,
and we remember Nino Rota;
he, who gave us, with his song,
the sound of heaven
as the flawed with hearts of faith
might well imagine it.
Your birthday, Nino Rota;
and we’re remembering the road,
grateful to have found your footprints there.
Like notes upon a stave,
towards the singing
of the angels.