I am afraid of silence, do not leave!
Your piano where angels could reside
each morning overcomes the depth of night.
Oh, instrument of psyche and of grief!
Once we together roamed in disbelief
the streets of Socrates and gleaming light
played on the keys of columns, ancient, bright,
an overwhelming, happy leitmotif.
Now in the morning, sitting back to back,
when you fight demons I am fighting tears,
I am a mute keyboard with all keys black.
Your solitude, internal, it appears
with dark preludes and fugues that come and drag
my notes of loneliness that no one hears.
Sounds of your piano - variation on the poem by Jena Woodhouse
© Copyright: Борис Старосельский, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103041400133
Свидетельство о публикации №103041400133
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