Wolfgang... Little machine in powdered lace... Paraded through Candlelight Kingdoms... A child sold to Emperors... A Miracle dragged across Europe By the hand... Of his Father... Leopold counted coins While the child coughed blood into velvet Paris swallowed his Mother whole Anna Maria... Dead in a foreign room... And the boy kept playing... Always playing... No childhood... Only chandeliers... Cold applause... And fever... Prodigy... Prodigy... PRODIGY... Letters scattered across Vienna... Begging friends for money... Ink dissolving into panic... Debt crawling up the staircase Like rats in Winter... He wrote music for Angels... Yet slept beside despair... Requiem... Requiem in D minor... Write my funeral into fire... Black Notes falling like crows Across the Cathedral Sky... Mozart hears death breathing Behind his own lullaby... Six children... Four tiny graves... Constanze weeping in silence... Tiny hands buried beneath snow... And Wolfgang... Wolfgang collapsing into himself... A body swollen with fever... Skin burning... Mouth poisoned with vomiting prayers... He swore someone poisoned him... Salieri... Salieri... The court whispers danced like knives... But madness bends shadows... Into human faces... The Requiem became a mirror... Each page another coffin nail... Each note another breath... Closer... Closer... "This Mass is for me..." "This Mass is for me..." Vienna turned black around him! The room smelled of medicine and candle wax! Kidneys drowning! Body bloated like a corpse before burial! And still— Still— He conducted ghosts from his bed! Requiem... Requiem in D minor... The Composer buried inside the score... Pipe organs crying through frost Choirs mourning Heaven's Door... Thirty-five years old... And already becoming myth... December Fifth... Just before one in the morning... Vienna slept... While Mozart disappeared... No marked grave... Only Winter earth... Only rumors... Only silence... Constanze could not bear the funeral... Too much grief... Too much debt... Too much death... And somewhere... In the cold... The Requiem still writes itself...
