It was but four walls,
Of rugged white plaster.
Yet as my fingertips descend through the young mounts of dried paint,
The melody resonant in the keys of black and white echo in my mind.
Beethoven’s Sonata. Chopin’s Impromptu. Mozart’s Ballad.
Accented whispers of legato that lure my conscious.
Beckoning pleadings of the potent staccato, which rekindle emotions.
Both intertwined in the spectrum of treble and bass
No words. But articulate speech.
So much for the exquisite mahogany that spelt out dulcet timbre by its very existence.
Yet so less for the genius of the crafter behind that soothing harmony.
For someday my fingers may dance on the woven silk of black and white yarn.
But until then, I shall pray to let my fingertips on the carpet where God’s foot laid rest.