I'll sit at this piano until I die--
Let the music be the tears I cannot cry.
Each note, a syllable, to fill the space--
Painting the words my heart cannot face.
Hard ivory and wood worn with time,
Many hands have touched; tears sublime.
My fingers--so small--yet a large sound make,
Small comfort, shielding my heart from certain break.
I'm not a master, though I do try
Bach would laugh as I would cry.
Of all the melodies played in our time,
Mine--but small thread in that great twine.
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