This is an idea I have been fleshing out. If you like it, please comment. Thank for coming to my blog

PRAGUE

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They are unable to read this unfortunate grandiloquence in their illiteracy. And I am

unable to hear these words read aloud in my angry silence. Do they comprehend my

music? Probably not, but if someone could translate these pithy epithets; like I could

translate these notes into music. Maybe in their squalor they could cognate the cutaneous

joy I felt writing about the valor and the integrity of these tone poems.

Imagine me, Bedrich Smetana, father of Bohemian music, with a weak mind, racked

with insanity. If I could communicate my compassion with a few good words, a few

notes and a few coins. These denizens revenged by some quirk of nature with skin so

dark like my mind in moments of melancholy. If I could make my last few months

worthwhile, it would be a benevolent venture.

I am powerless to write music any more, even with my move to Sweden and back, I

have failed to compose like Mozart and attain the technique of Litzt. They have

christened me the father of Bohemian Music. Yes, I have compiled much and

accomplished even more but to die in ignominious defeat with voices telling me to sleep

and to rise in the morning, to eat and to defecate. I am not who I was. – But I wonder

about the Dalit people – the untouchables marked by their dark skin at the lowest of the

caste system of the Indian Subcontinent

Who are they? Have they a culture? A Literature? Music. They must. How can a human

not sing and dance? Can they not smile and laugh and celebrate? Can they not they feel

pain and suffer at the cry of a lament: The basics of life? Like the poverty of food and

shelter. Like the poverty of my deafness screaming in the labyrinths of my ears. I have

bathed in riches but now I drown in the emptiness of silence. Is there one thing I can do

to redeem myself?

Feed the hungry. Feed the hunger of my disparity of mind. I wrote songs of strength

and Nationalism now I waste away in the same vacuum of these people. Do they not have

a sense of Brotherhood, maybe not Nationalism. Pervasive oppression lies forth only

individuals torn from the womb of community. There are many people who are so poor

in our country The Roma are so despised and oppressed.

But I need to look beyond my country’s glorious boundaries to the south to give me 

perspective of absolute poverty of life as my life has poverty of mind, yet I have a heart. I

do have a heart if not a soul ravaged by mental distraction and distress. But still a heart

remains. I can’t hear the power of my music but I can hear my imploding mind. If could

only correspond through a translator who could read my words to the illiterate people.

How can we treat people so decrepitly? So mean with prejudice when we are all born

into the world and buried in the same brown soil? Perhaps the soil I will be buried in

would be brown or rich black humus while they will be burned and tossed to the wind:

Must they have such a clean end to an insufferable existence?

Before my madness takes my last breathe away. Me, the father of Bohemia music. Ha!

I am just a madman like any other. Unable to hear what I have composed even though my

finest tone poems were composed when all I could feel were the vibrations.

There are so many poor people in the world.  May be some poor man would have 

danced to my song when I was composing at my best. I must go beyond my mind,

beyond my glorious county to an ordinary poor man marked a Dalit and hope he learns

from my love of life and the joy of music. And I hope he learns that the wealthy die in the

same darkness. Educated yet ignorant of the painful agony of death. And hopefully

Providence will be good to the both of us. Yes, Providence.

 Maybe with the money his son can transcend the darkness of poverty after I transcend 

this life and my deafness are buried. All the pomp and circumstance of a Bohemian dance

won’t bring back my sweet four-year-old daughter or my beloved Katherine. All I can

offer in the remainder of my life is money. But I am impoverished in this insane asylum

as that man with the dark skin and dark eyes.

My means for benevolence is random but the last beating of my heart will be direct and 

I am determined to be a donator of the remainder of my dying heart and soul.

  I pray he is prudent with the money and his son even more. Death is cheap. A future 

for a son is worth a fortune. I hope he doesn’t cheat me in his desperation. For my life is

so short. Let the untouchable one be touched by my coin so his son will touch another.

I must go for my water therapy. I hope it helps. Anything that soothes this mental 

anguish will suffice.

Let one finger of my hand touch the hand of the man whose son will learn to sing of a 

better day. And let his family and brethrens be rich and know of this last coin of song.

And this will be the last tone poem I shall compose before I surrender to this insanity

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