I adore Mozart’s The Magic Flute.
Tamino seeks enlightenment;
He walks the narrow path.
His road inclines steeply;
His burden weighs heavy;
His wonted mode of thought
No longer suits;
He turns away from the night.
The light embraces him; he it.
And as he unites with Pamina,
They bravely emerge from their trials,
Ennobled and ideal.

But his arias bore the audience;
He is a mere hero.

Papageno catches birds,
Sells them at the market,
Whistles on his panpipes,
Has his mouth stopped up
By the Queen of the Night.
He craves nothing more
Than food and drink
And a pretty girl.
He dreads the mildest of chores,
He basks in the gaze of his beloved.
His baritone captivates;
He feeds his soul to the score.

In the opera, these companions thrive in parallel
And graciously rejoice
In each other's gloried gains.
But in this ribcage of a stadium,
They war merrily
Over the scarred triangle at its core.
Papageno, the linebacker
Cradles the fumbled prize,
Curling over it while Tamino claws.

As they and their devoted partisans
Move it up and down the divoted pitch,
A crowd will roar with every run and pass,
With every down and score.
And the righteous will cheer Tamino.

But I of weary, anticlimactic descent
From the peak of life’s most sublime vistas
Will wear the brilliant colors
Of Papageno’s feathers
And root heartily instead for him.

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