The Pianist

The Pianist

In the hush of the cathedral‑shaped hall,
the keys gleam, a sea of ebony and ivory,
whispering thin, bright corridors of sound.

She sits, the pianist, fingers like wisteria vines—
sweeping, blooming over the yellow‑linen music‑books,
each touch a soft, deliberate spell.

Outside, the rain lingers on the pavement,
but inside, a fire blazes, forged by a single flash of ambition:
to turn these metallic bones into poetry.

Her hands move like crickets across the minutes,
capturing the aching lull of a last winter’s dusk,
then soaring up to the high clouds of summer air.

Children sit, eyes wide, as the mazurka swells,
the story follows, as the notes weave itself into the heart.
It’s small: a single bar, a single sigh;
but we know the whole symphony in that little breath.

When the final chord hangs, echoing off the vaulted ceiling,
she bows, but her gaze remains on the ivory,
as if still a part of her melody lives within each key.

In that fleeting silence that follows, the hall speaks back,
with the faintest fading echo of a quiet patter,
and the world keeps turning, a dance of patience and grace—
the pianist, still in her silence, hiding colours she cannot name.