A poet hidden in a singer,
A singer hidden in a poet,
Under the grey skies,
On a land of snow,
Her lamp almost burned,
She wrote,
She was a poet,
But she sang too,
She sang her melancholic pieces of poetry, carved on wood,
She sang lullabies with her words, on torn ***** papers,
On a broken seat, with a dusty piano,
She bagan to play with the waves of notes, pushing her tired fingers, against the keys.
Afraid she was because she thought she was imperfect,
But some imperfections are beautiful and wonderful, she did not know that.
Her pain gave her words birth,
Her fears raised her words,
Her regrets made her sing,
Her beautifully written  poetry,
Not too strong, and not to powerful,
With a little voice, with a little hope,
A girl who was afraid to speak,
The one who was afriad of herself,
Invaded the universe.
With her unheard voice,
With those unspoken words.
An unexplained series began,
When her shaky voice sang her old lost lullabies,
And her soul lifted her voice up,
Her body still shaking.
But not quitting,
She wrote and wrote and sang and sang.
On sunsets, on oceans, on skies , on rain,
She wrote her heart out by singing with her soul.

Who said it was meant to be a straight line?
Tiptoe, crawl behind illusory fences
in pursuit of deceptive safety.
Caution, and caution more!
Till it bores the death out of us all.
We might well stand tall
and bounce back, or forth as it goes.
And trip over a brick, collapse and call it fate.
Who said it's a running race, or an empty song?
Who ran the road and came back to tell us there's a prise at the end?
I wished it woudn't be a lose lose match
between us and time.
But it sprints on and we drive this car back
to the scratch.
All the more alone we both become.
We rise and fall over sharps and flats
and forget it's the piano that plays.
And the musician knows to music
no ending is valid.

The boy started to play the piano
As his melody resounds,
I saw the sunflowers filled the stage,
An illusion.

When his fingers push the keys
I feel his hands
holding my heart
crushing it with his music.

But you suddenly disappeared,
like how you left the piano
in the lonely stage,
leaving me in pain.

I waited for you
wishing to hear you play again,
To touch the piano keys,
To hold my heart.

Years passed,
you came back
walking in the old stage
and I'm here again, admiring you.

The boy turned into a fine man
He starts to play the piano
Cherry blossoms filled the stage
Another illusion.

From the dazzling flower
with bright yellow petals
to an occasional blossom
with light, soft color.

Your music changed
You've changed
But one thing hasn't,
my love.

"You play it perfectly, just like a recipe. But I don't want it perfect, I want it your way. Spread some identity over it".
She gives me an advice and I lose myself.

Pianissimo/Andante

I am ten years old. My parents had an argue. I reach for my mother with a glass of water, my brother is at school. With my right hand I set the glass in front of her, with my left hand I caress her shoulder. She screams at me and shove the glass on the ground. I am my mother's spilled water.
This is a memory.

Mezzo-forte/Vivace

I am thirteen years old. My father takes me to lunch. The whole time he complains about life and how things are going nowhere with my mother, still we have a good time together. With my right hand I hold the chopsticks, with my left hand I play with the napkin. Our eyes never cross, but we are in touch. I am at peace with them both. I am my father's cigarettes.
This is a lie.

Mezzo-piano/Andante

I am fourteen years old. My brother takes me to the movies everytime things get bad at home. Sometimes we watch two or three movies in a row, never go back before sunset. With my right hand I hold a cup of ice tea, with my left hand I check on his phone. I am my brother's merciful escapes.
This is an illusion.

"Did you hear me? You did a great job! Start practicing changing the dynamic, how does that sound?"

I thank her and leave. Such standard words, she must say them to many more students, no idea the impact they caused on me. I guess I am just doomed to overthinking anything at all. You see, that's the deal. With the right hand, play the melody, with the left hand, play the harmony. I guess I've been focused on the melody, in a world run by the harmony.
On my way home I stop to buy a pack of cigarettes. I light one up and set it on a table, watch it burning. I've quit smoking sometime ago, never really cared for the rush, much less for the taste. After all it's just about seeing how easy the smoke flies by.
I guess I will change the dynamic. From now on:

Crescendo

The upbeat tune backs a million journies
It comes from a battered piano and
The fingers of an old eccentric man
Who's smile lights the biggest room

Passersby share this magic with him
Their business paused for just a moment
They let the rhythm dance inside of them
Lit up from the happy notes

Tonight they will share folk tales
Of the smiling silver wonder
Tommorow he will return
To again colour the keys of the piano

my favorite dance step of yours
is when your fingers
start to play the piano.

and because you,
who speaks little with strangers,
suddenly become the talk

of everyone
when you let your hands
speak for you.

It was as if the world itself fell away and all that existed was the piano. He reluctantly made his way over to the gigantic instrument, and simply stared. His hands, seeming to have a mind of their own, absentmindedly struck few comfortable keys. The hollow notes hung, as is frozen in midair, before bouncing about the room and finally fading into silence. A hushed quiet falls on his unnoticed audience as he stands above the playground of his hands. His fingers hover above the ivory keys, fearing the outcome he knew would accompany his continuance. With a frown he pushed on, filling the room with strings of beautiful music, playing out his very soul. It was more than music, it was life, it was the feeling of soft grass warmed by the rays of the afternoon sun, it was the first sip of cold lemonade on a blistering day, but to him it was her. Suddenly, the music became soft and somber, as the tempo grew erratic and uncontrolled. He felt anger course through him as his hand grew tighter and began to lock in unusual places. His listeners now shuffle nervously while others look on, concerned for their unknowing player. His anger gives way to despair as his right hand suddenly cracks and grows limp, leaving his left to finish with only a lonely chord. As the last notes ring out, he cradles his hand and turns to leave only to hear clapping.