My treacherous hands,
Having fragility hold their dexterity a hostage,
On an old time-bitten Grand,
Sitting in dust,out of tune,
Play the nocturne of my hopeless night.

And one grief,
Your grief
(Summoning all its cousins,commanding
The weak sinews of my tender hands,
To play the requiem to my long un-granted wish)
Still speaks and prays and cries inside me,
As if it were blind to the wilderness deep within.

I am not but forced to question myself.
Should I still warm the strings of this mellow pianoforte,
With the constant rush of unsettling emotions for you,
Or should I just fade into an uneasy silence,
Deeming my emotions mundane,
And die a pitiable death?