My hands lie cool and still on your mute keys,
tenderly possessive, yet they do not command.
Good, clean, and alive hands.
How do they introduce me to the world?
A brilliant passage, a tremulous strain of an unwary mood of vibrant tones
evoked by two pale apparitions,
gliding gently, pouncing abruptly in expression and revelation.
Tenderly possessive, yet they are not masters;
They are servants.
Slaves chained to my ego,
performing loyally over long white rectangles
that synchronize turbulence with calm,
flowing in poetic meter
and punctuated by narrow strips of black sharps and flats.
Good, clean, and alive these hands,
and how do I introduce them to the world?
By first introducing them to you, my fine piano.
The ordinary tasks of day are rendered:
the shaking of other hands, directing attention, groping, clasping,
...but no real distinction between evil and good
lies mirrored in these lithe hypocrites.
Yet, if I had not them, and they had not you, piano,
Command would not have its obedience,
Master would not have his servant,
And the world and music would never have been