My pianist

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On an old piano,
He was playing away the night.
Hands gliding, spreaded,
Soaring between the black and white
Like a skilled silk weaver,
They leap, bouncing on the keys,
Mischievous as a child.
He turned to ask without much of a pause
For a breath, “Do you like Mozart?”
I had not answered when he turned back again
Into his world of nocturnes as midnight spilled
Her daughters’ radiance upon his cheeks.
And I was silenced by the scene,
And of the something I knew
I would never ever again see.

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