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Frédéric
Francçois Chopin(1810-49);
Poland.
Nocturne Op.9
Sunrise listened
as I summoned your face to mine.
Your arms around me
in the silence of this empty rest;
incomplete,
I lie alone.
My footsteps trace the hall
lured
to the solace of the keys where
they wait in quiet yet whose strings
are
nagging like a woman scorned.
I would write a song for you my love.
I
would write a song of promise
from the hollow of my core;
complete,
but still alone. I watch my hands across the keys
from
white to black
and crevices between,
the soundlessness is broken
pulling
tears out from the air.
An ancient ballad intervenes,
an offering lays
opened.
His silence stands alone. Louder I play, the
tempo never rushed.
I created this for him, can he not hear it?
Slender
trills, sudden rises,
passion lost against the flicking pages
of his flurried
catalogue
and coffee in the den.
My soul sees only you,
so many
miles
and time away.
I move my hands for your eyes.
You, who finds
beauty in every
breath I take. You caress me with
your words. With no
reserve,
my soul lies bare. Your face,
your voice, I bring you near.
You are the sound that fills my air.
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