The Pianist                          November, 2007

"...Those that live to work and those who work to live.

Those that struggle so they won't fit

In any of such sad categories."

I met you in December.

For you, it was a hot one.

You were walking by

I glared at you and smiled

I confess I was a bit scared,

But knew the worst that could happen,

Was that I didn't speak your language.

 

You were not alone,

Your band was with you:

The drummer, the bass player,

The guitarist and the manager.

And you, the pianist.

  

You greeted me in Spanish,

 I said "hi" in English,

And so a bond was established

Beyond oceans and mountains,

Messenger and telephone,

Snow and wind,

Sand and caves,

 Emails and will.

 

We joked together; saw places together; ate together.

I showed you the monuments of a foreign city;

Your pianist hands felt old ruins of the past;

I heard your stories of your iced land;

You tasted the warmth of our rum at last.

 

You took plenty of pictures hoping to catch

A memento of a journey you wanted to last

Not forever, but enough to record

Laugh and walk and taste in your heart.

 

Now you're away, but not gone,

Time catches me thinking about what you've done,

The music your mind and hands have composed,

Your ears colored by other countries' sounds.

 

Tonsils removed, fevers endured,

Broken hearts and fallen tears,

Celebrated accomplishments,

A job after the other,

New bosses, old mates,

New lessons to learn.

Other people you've met along the road,

Those that live to work and those who work to live.

Those that struggle so they won't fit

In any of such sad categories.

 

I hear your songs every once in a while,

Wonder if I'll ever hear you play live.

I wish you the best, my good friend, the pianist.

I want you to know that you're not alone.

And even if you are, like you said, by yourself,

It will still be an exciting escapade.

 

Thank you for the music, like Agneta said,

The music you have brought into my life,

I will always know that though far away,

My friend the pianist, and I,

Are not so different, after all.

 

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