Completed: 2024-10-23
In milky hues the barren walls are clad;
In stillness, focus, with a solemn air,
Notes are sounded joyous, sublime, and sad,
All played with cold countenance, posture fair.
Practiced fingers float gracefully with ease,
Outstretched like flower petals in full bloom,
Enumerating measures to appease,
The composer who slumbers in his tomb.