Shostakovich 14th Symphony

In this work we know that Death is Russian.
Low tones, as if from a dank charnel rise
moldered and black, and terrifyingly burst:
the noxious cackle of a witch, a vivid
basso cry and shriek as of ghoul or banshee,
one apart or two together: a dissonant song
or withering death-rattle. O come from dark
keeps, you haunters of subterranean depths
who have put cold coin in ancient Charon's hand,
come, and dance macabre in chancel vaults;
spin, scream and tussle like grim celebrants.

Then timorous, desolate violin and cello
remark a purgatorial ambivalence: shapes
cower and huddle in gauze-webbed corners,
frightened by echoes of their spent fury;
words, dashed against stone like fists of mail,
fall like rotten plums or leperous growths
to a dead stillness. O unhallowed calm,
do you foretoken hell, or peace of Paradise?
A strident Soviet motif ceases with a question.


mid 90s (Lovecraftian purple)