The stage is set,
No longer thus imagined.
The audience awaits
To approve or castigating judge.
The time is come,
And fingers full familiar, eager to perform,
Escape to a place of peace-
Quiet rooms of lonely repetition,
Padded walls, closed doors
But then the music stops.
What once was ripe- to feel the quiet calm-
Is deafening now with audience embalmed.
They are not pleased?
But how much so?
Will they up and leave,
Grumbling as they go?
Then ears used to hearing only the piano's pause,
Explode with the triumph of applause-
Unending applause.
They liked it!
But it really doesn't matter;
Like Beethoven, you play to hear, not to be heard.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem