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The Pianist
The grand piano bites your hands with jagged teeth.
You donít let up. I watch you play Beethoven
As if thereís essence in your notes and life is brief.
The curtains rise. You leave the window opened.
You bleed in front of me. I dare not look away. 
At once, a mortal and a god, youíre omnipotent.
The harmony takes shape; what a superb array
Of colors, forms and barely whispered texts!
Your fingers tame the frantic keys and they
Rush to respond to you, one faster than the next,
Preceding you before the page is turned.
The melody is gentle; simple, yet complex.
Your eyes fixated, tranquil, calm and stern.
They take no note of me. They are sublime.
You're elsewhere, -- in another place, another time.
The last few notes and suddenly, your hands fall dead
Into some endless void. No echo. Only silence.
Then, wearily you rise, with half-closed eyelids,
As though a dreamer rising out of bed.

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