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Except for the grand piano the stage was empty and bare
In the large packed hall.
The young pianist sat upright, hands tightly clasped,
Waiting to give his all.
Slowly in anticipation, silence settled upon the auditorium,
Whispers subsided, coughs suppressed.
He raised his hands slowly, the music in his mind
Descended to his breast
Till it filled his whole being with poignant emotion
And seeped through to the keys.
Oh the intensity of sound that came to those who heard,
With what great ease
The notes soothed or excited the weary and worn souls
Who truly listened,
Who felt of his love of music and so in turn groped
To fully comprehend.
The pianist was lost to everything around except
The sound each note brings.
The listeners mirrored his spirit, strength and power
When he made the piano sing.
To him the hall could be empty, or no seats left at all,
To him who plays not for money but to fill his soul,
And in so doing enriches, feeds and makes whole
Those who are absorbed in his love of music, his life.
No mistake is heard, whether made or not,
Poise and style does not matter one jot.
The glorious music carries you to a higher plain of understanding.
What rapture of ethereal delight of the purest sound,
What hours of pain and practice, what great sacrifice
Gave me the pleasure of sitting spellbound in utter delight.
©
Ann Margetson Feb 1997
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