After the white wings of death took our maestro up to heaven and sang to him familiar songs, they were echoes of his earthly revelries. Our feelings rose with him as they had done on earth.
The next concert was dedicated to him in his memory; his joy and his sorrow, his humor and his serious sides. The music was a poetic image of his fervent passion.
The first movement pulled the spirit of the tranquil skies down to earth as the musicians caressed it as it climbed inside of them. Then the trombones changed the mood with their merriment, laughing away as if telling a funny story.
Then the blackened clouds unleashed their fury and shouted at the earth with cymbals crashing, piccolos screaming, and turbulent tympani drums cursing at the Gods. They set the tone for the mournful interlude that was up next.
The music settled down to a quiet lament that took over and bid the cellist to begin his tearful solo. As the bow nestled into his trembling fingers, he started to caress the crying strings. He pulled the tears out of the audience with each stroke, and his mournful sound guided them as they streamed down their cheeks. The only other sound to be heard was a painful sobbing, his requiem to their dearly departed maestro.
If there ever was a mood to describe a musical instrument, the cello would be my choice as the one most remembered for its portrayal of sadness, a mournful interlude, the song of tears.