In a den so dark, the upright radiates with its own light,
He sits at his bench and composes for the dead
Who might still understand his notes.
His fingers dance before their vacant eyes;
Chords resonate in the empty skulls
That might still hear his tones.
While ebony and ivory clash in a dissonance reinforced by centuries,
A fugue of apologies cascade before a voiceless crowd
Which might still know his woes.
As they loom with the past in their bones,
They proffer the serenades of old
Whose notes he might still learn.
Another link in a chain,
He performs for the living
Who might still love the sounds.
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