I counted the keys of an old piano
It has eighty eight keys black and white
Fifty two white and thirty six black
Black and white make it right.
The piano has strings short and long
Some are thin and some are strong
Many are gold, and some are silver
Forty five strings make them whole.
The strings are lined and tuned and set
They are stretched and kept in stress
The beats are born when they are tense
Melodies flow when the lines are stretched.
Stress and strain make the music flow
Each string is placed at its stretch
To give proper tune to the Master’s bliss
The touch of His fingers makes it flow.
Life is a piano with keys black and white
Lines are pulled and stretched tight
Music flows to the touch of Master’s hands
Tune and notes follow the magic hands.
The poem was born in the waiting room of a cancer clinic where a dear one was going through therapy. There was an old piano in the waiting room. The author with the restless mind counted the keys and strings of the piano and scribbled the lines in a worn-out magazine page.