Your shrunken face
and so shabby dress
your fingers bitten hard by cold
full of marks of blood on cheeks
unshaven beard witness to holocaust
could have made a wrong impression
you could have been killed by bullets hot
piercing through the air burning holes
your dusty boots worn out soles...
but
wasn't there the piano still?
a pure wooden instrument covered by a white cloth?
The officer's eyes were however grim
His eyes with an idea toyed
and he asked you to play
through the broken battered window visions of dead bodies stray
came unhindered like distinct pains...
and you uncovered the piano
and touched the blackish stains
on reeds...
the copper plate announcing the make
of the piano an italian stake...
all those played on your mind
and you for a moment closed your eyes...going blind...
and tried to put your mind on the reeds...
and the music in you bred...
slowly surely an outpouring ripple...
your fingers supple...
and the rest...
is history they say
you kept the officer stuck to his chair the whole day...
his eyes from grimness went on to be
fascinated... blueprint of a kind sea...
he just kept listening all his mind
his face glowed with unseen shine...
at the end
of the play...
the victim and the oppressor stayed
face to face...
no enmity had its trace
in the soldier officer's hat and strapped coat
harshness left his military throat...
he stood up and asked him
how much hungry he had been...
and how much thirst he had braved...
the poor man was thus saved...
the piano did the thing for him
his fingers woken up from a dream
started tearing the bread soon...
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