It was a long, narrow corridor
with many doors.
The wind came in through the cracks
in the old, paint-faded windows
and tittered and whistled and echoed
off the walls, worn by fingers
of generations of children
their faces black and white and silent.
And then the piano,
so soft and slow and lilting; the beauty of slender slavik fingers.
So steeped in woe as it was, I could barely hold back the tears.
And with my voice low and still
I began to sing.