His fingers on one note then next note
Plucked the piano with the words he wrote
On the slabs of fire;
Syncopation, swing and counterpoint
All merge to form whole without a joint,
Constantly high
At every moment you raise your game
Always improving and not the same
In the ways you sing.
You play slowly with a secret charm
Re-invent ragtime, causing no harm,
Then you caught the swing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem