Nimrod, arranged for violas In memoriam Peter Barber The daphne is already in bud, the cherry still waves a few red flags against winter. Everything is too warm, although now you will not see it. You have left them behind, your daughter, two sons, your wife, all grieving. No one knows where you are or what happens next. Nimrod, we can see this was not planned. Despite the music, well chosen, and the fine words, everyone is counting the bars until the last fermata. How long do I have? But that is the wrong question. The world is too warm. Our fault. It is high time we all stopped.
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