My dear Lady
You are not of this world.
You can make a piano stand on tip-toes
And stretch towards heaven,
Or inspire an orchestra of strings
To charge at eternity.
Each note
Is a statement of finality.
When you touch the keys
Beethoven sits
At your ear
As you guide every note
To perfection.
But for whom do you play?
For the wealthy spiritual peasants
Of the empty class?
For the few who care
But cannot understand
Your struggle?
You play outside of time
Beyond our hearing.
Such music fills the void
Between the stars
And resonates in the minds
Of listening gods.