Arthur Leung – Ⅱ
Playing a Chopin Mazurka
You make a glowing breath
on each final beat,
a dance that can’t be danced,
clap the A-flat
like a bold, surprise kiss:
your blacks and whites indulge
in a Polish folk tune,
triplets of city pace,
the dotted rhythm of dreams.
You summon routine flight,
minute excitements –
the last, contented strike
of the computer’s return key
in every office task,
or the impatient carhorn
in every round of the traffic
light about to turn red –
before the landing of home.
Piano, you dance a dance
of old and modern times,
of trivialities,
that wishful breath, hum
of recurring homesickness –
the music’s in love with you.
You make a glowing breath
on each final beat,
a dance that can’t be danced,
clap the A-flat
like a bold, surprise kiss:
your blacks and whites indulge
in a Polish folk tune,
triplets of city pace,
the dotted rhythm of dreams.
You summon routine flight,
minute excitements –
the last, contented strike
of the computer’s return key
in every office task,
or the impatient carhorn
in every round of the traffic
light about to turn red –
before the landing of home.
Piano, you dance a dance
of old and modern times,
of trivialities,
that wishful breath, hum
of recurring homesickness –
the music’s in love with you.