Concert in The Old School Garret Poem
White fingers of the sexton sleep heavy upon us.
Half a century
Since anyone as much as touched this piano.
Let it sing again
As it was made to yesterday.
Phantom hands which strike softly or which thunder.
The forhead of this man heavy as the heavens before it rains.
And the springs,
Under the weight of excitement, forgot to squeak.
Half a century it is since anyone as much as touched this piano.
Our good friend, Time,
Sucked each figure empty like a honeybee which has lived long enough and drunk enough honey so that now it can dry out in the sun somewhere.
Under the closed eyes, another person sits
Under the closed eyes, he seeks among the keys
As among the vein through which the blood flowed softly
When you kiss them with a knife and put a song to it
And this man yesterday cut all the veins,
Opening all the organ's stops,
Paid all the birds to sing,
To sing
Even though the harsh fingers of the sexton sleep heavy upon us.
Bent in his manners of death, you are like Beethoven
Your forehead was as heavy as the heavens before it rains.
