Prelude in C-sharp minor

Throughout life, we constantly discover new creators—poets, writers, composers, and artists. However, there are those whose works accompany us from birth, becoming an integral part of our lives and consciousness. For me, these are the works of Sergei Rachmaninoff. Of course, not exclusively his, but his palette resonates with me the most. Yes, I perceive symphonic music in color, which perhaps compensates for my complete lack of musical ear. I feel vibrations; I see color. The purplish-lilac hues of his Second Concerto and the bright bursts of white in the Fourth drive me mad. And inside, I hear poetry. Sometimes I manage to write it down; other times, it slips away. Now, I want to share with you verses inspired by Sergei Rachmaninoff's famous Prelude in C-sharp minor, Opus 3. How it turned out is not for me to judge. In Russian, the text feels harsher than in English. Although I sincerely hope that I managed to preserve the main effect.

Wildstorm. Rachmaninoff. Prelude.
The draft sweeps restless through the halls,
Bright flashes tear the sky with calls,
And thunder shouts as silence falls.

Leaves tremble, shadows twist and shift,
A dagger pierces, sharp and swift
And words betray, their meanings drift—
This pain feels like death’s cruel gift.

A fleeting duet, sharp and crude:
There’s roaring thunder, judgment brewed.
Where do they call? Where is the route?
Wildstorm. Rachmaninoff. Prelude.