Bach, My Heartbeat

Though flogged and cloudy
my nervous center throbs,
spacious days self-ascend
on the drift of Bach's bow.

Scholarly impressions guess
at riveting translation sessions,
but deliberately underestimate
tenor of withheld inflections.

Through deflated afternoons
baited late into sluggish night,
the heavy pour of best attempt
is caught between bars of flight.

This spell reeks of succeeding,
as if it were nothing to even try.
Seminal sound floods out fear,
tribulation bows to Bach's cry.