Sonate voor de pianist

The chamber of the heart is empty and dark.
Not the kind of pitchblack darkness one fears. More like the dark that veils your eyes when you come inside, after lying in the garden in the sun all afternoon.
Not the kind of painfull emptiness of a broken home left unrepaired. More like the silent emptiness of a desert, that can burst to life in a few hours when the long awaited rain comes. The kind of gentle emptiness of a room, when the sound of aproaching footsteps echoes through the hall.

In the middle of the heart, in this anticipating emptiness, in the gentle veiling darkness, stands an old piano. Its strings brittle, its wooden keys so very old. They don't make them like that anymore. It is the last remaining treasure of a forgotten age. No one knows how it got there, in fact, very few people know that it is there at all.

An unseen pianist feels his way through the arteries. He sits down on the weathered antique wooden bench, his fingers exploringly caress the keys. Faded black and greyish white, but all the same in the dark. With a sigh he pours the music from his fingers into life. The body resonates. Forte, pianissimo, andante, allegro... A smile unfolds, unexpected tears, a glow of happiness, the sudden pain of forgotten desire.
Broken strings cannot be fixed. But the pianist plays around the missing ones. They form the beautiful tears, the meaningfull pain. It adds character to the music.

In de donkere kamer van mijn hart
Zit een virtuoos pianist aan een oude piano
Vanuit zijn vingers stroomt het leven
zoals het hoort, op het gevoel.
En als je nu eens heel goed luistert
hoor je misschien wat ik bedoel.