Are those fingers, the ones playing Bach just now,
and these fingers really the same?
This thng of mine, getting long and getting short,
and not resembling a piano at all,
must be called a comical tool;
so how does this conventional thing
and the great Bach, by your soft fingers,
get joined together?
I, myself, have no idea!
Yet, that thing of yours and this of mine,
now the color of the naked heart,
feel so warm, so smooth
in endless surrender much like death,
and when in this transparent blood filled darkness
I unexpectedly seem to meet Bach face to face.

(Translated by Harold Wright)