My mother asked me
To play to her the piano,
Every night;
She said, she loved
To hear her son
Play the piano.
The same song every day,
I played.
Shifting no scale,
Changing no chords,
But to my mother it was,
Another song, every night.
The piano got dusty,
Yet it sounded mesmerizing to my mothers ears;
Because it was again, to her
Another song;
Even when the piano got dusty.
Soon, I gave my concert.
Before the town. In
A lavish hall, on
A lavish stage, with
A brand new piano,
Offered by the premises.
And yes, the same song I played,
And yes, to my mother who sat in the front row,
It seemed like yet another song;
Even on a different piano.
Today, on her death bed, she lies; waiting for some one to soothe her.
So I shall play to her,
The same song, on
The same piano;
The dusty, antique piano which,
Would sound even more enchanting,
To her ears; because
To my mother the song sounds,
New every day;
Gives her utmost pleasure, to watch
Her son play……
And the piano never counts, the piano never counts.
