Note: This is for Rachel. (You can be the girl if you want to.) Happy Birthday!
The room was large and jammed with rich and random contents; framed paintings to the ceiling, the floor covered with genuine Persian carpets, and there the piano, the great piano out of which had come this sound, shining in the middle of this mayhem.
The girl on the bench furrowed her brows in concentration. She, the centre diamond of it all, in a long, elegant gown of silk, played the lacquered grand piano with agile, unerring fingers, her hair a broad smooth yellow glow about her shoulders.
And there came that beautiful song, clear and shining through the dark air, the pristine notes, the crystalline music. So grand, so legible of tragedy and dauntless spirit.
The piano sang on in crashing cascades, the rapid notes melting as fast as they were born, so like the last thin snowflakes of the winter, vanishing before they strike the pavements. The notes were limpid and translucent and exquisitely distinct.
Back and forth she rocked on the bench as the melody went faster and more urgent. Her slim fingers flew across the keys with astonishing preciseness. Her body arched forward with her head thrown back in a moment of passion and the chords of music crashed down in a raging torrent and flooded the room. It was like the clap of thunder, the drastic drumming of an ancient war, the rumbling ground beneath the horse's hooves.
The melody slowed into a smooth, steady stream of notes and finally ended. Her eyelids fluttered open as her lips stretched into a slow, satisfied smile. The tall, handsome boy by the corner came forth and clutched her hands in his and kissed it gently before whispering,
"Behold, the poet of music."
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