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At nine, i began to play:

very big, shiny black, with eighty-eight keys

- fifty-two white and thirty-six black, if you really do insist -
producing familiar notes at the stroke of a hand, like a harp, only

 

harder and less sharp.

 

I did not falter to touch, so the sounds came out
of the mysterious emptiness beneath the wing that most often stood half turned up,
although, in fact, there was no monster making music in the night,
when the kids are asleep and he can write… only pure science
- something I am glad i was not told at the time, only nine  -


some words are better left unsaid.


Innocence is so precious, and oftentimes forgot,
but think about the last time you believed in the magical,
      the phantoms who ride through the waves,
      the shadows hiding under your bed,
and then answer me this: do you agree, that it is best to nod when your little one talks
of creatures who strike their tunes with enchanted hammers
and that the brooding wing is there to avoid the Secret from getting out
- the top-secret Secret that only this little one knows -
to help
a child’s

wandering

    mind

grow?




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