The Pianist – 雅


The music is soft
And drips from him like gentle
Rain. The notes quietly

Patter like drops on
Leaves, lulling, luring me
To wander the path.

Beguiled, I follow
Him to a place of quiet.
Tenderly he leads.

A storm explodes and
His hands move with swiftness and
Intense passion. The

Rain is a tempest,
A frenzy of wind, seething
And ripping the leaves.

And then….silence. The
Storm is over.The pianist
Sits, drained, emptied.

He stands and leaves the
Room. I go to touch the keys,
And find them still warm

From his passionate
Touch. On the keys are drops of
Blood, wrenched from his soul.

2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Clowie
    Apr 04, 2013 @ 05:46:48

    That’s beautiful.


    • kanzensakura
      Apr 04, 2013 @ 10:36:09

      Thank you. This moment was called to mind the other day when I heard one of Chopins lovely nocturnes on the radio. The Pianist in this poem is the same man in my three prose offerings, The Samurai and the Wren.

      > Date: Thu, 4 Apr 2013 09:46:49 +0000
      > To:


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