My, what a magnificent masterpiece is the Piano; a delicate Wonder is my Wurlitzer upright. Ever more precious is the Young Chang grand, At which I enjoy Sitting on Sundays. Its soft cover I unfold, Its polished, heavy lid I lift. With crippled fingers I Touch the sacred keys Of black and white. The ebony and ivory, Smooth and glossy, I caress with those self-same hands, Cracked and lined with flexible Folds that such an Immortal, stolid instrument Shall never know upon its own Stalwart being. As I press outwardly, The internal components Make a complicated Dance Of loveliness. Each hammer strikes a succession of Strings, Which create chords That feed my unworthy Ears With sweetness. The sweetness becomes treasured Music The Magic of Sound When dynamics and Emotion Imprint upon each rhythmic Melodic Phrase. Passionate rapture fills my troubled soul At the sound of that sugary Sweetness becoming The Magic of Sound and Soul That is Music. The rustic, worn wood of the Wurlitzer feels Ancient To my young fingers; To its wisdom I Listen, Fondly cherishing the soulful words Of rich tenor notes And delicate playfulness Of the music-box-like pitches of Its upper registers. The dear, resonant Vibrations Of the Young Chang Fill me with soothing Calm. Without such marvelous maestros Of music to Feed my soul, Would I even live, Or would I die of Emptiness from such a Hollow, abysmal fate My soul is consigned to? |