Invidia
A scant handful of people stand beside
his grave, and I am one of them. His wife
ignores me. When I heard that he had died
I secretly rejoiced. His was a life
of pure divertimento; mine a bane,
a counterpoint of reverence and grudge.
His popularity, no doubt, shall wane;
posterity will be the final judge.
The man is dead, but I am here to mourn
his music, held to rapturous acclaim;
and though I curse the day that he was born,
I bless the vagaries of fate and fame.
A most horrific, premature decease —
Mozart is dead. And may he rot in peace.
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