Arpeggio

The cigarette droops from the pianist's mouth 

He puffs as he plays to block it all out 

Hearing already the hymns in the air,

his sacred oath is to re-assemble what's already there

Fingers scurry madly over ivory keys,

and break in waves while his ebony knees

undulate for the pedals, perfect harmonies 

The pianist is lost in his dream

of dying under a bright sky 

that's only for him 

At the funeral only Steinway's colours

and the secrets of life 

in the thorn of the thunder