The Pianist Poem by Lotte Ahmad

I watched her fingers as they deftly but lovingly caressed the white and black keys, to produce the most marvellous sound. It was obvious to me that she was as familiar with the sounds she created, as a bird is with its chatter- she knew them intimately, and dare I say, they knew her. Her body swayed to the tempo that her free spirit and swift-moving fingers created- the beauty of it all was almost heathen- like a form of pagan worship to a god made by man.
The sound she created was full of emotion and not devoid of a stamp of her own identity. Her passion was apparent, a devotion that could neither be mistaken nor misplaced. She was surreal, surreal and ethereal.
I knew that if I saw her eyes, if I looked into their deep seismic pools to read their secrets, I would only see pure passion and an enduring love buried there. A love that would never die, a love that could not be denied. This was my discovery that day, and it became my heart-felt pledge. That with the avidity of the curly-haired pianist and her Yamaha, I would ride the highs and lows of life passionately, until the very end.