Saturday, May 07, 2005

At play.

The first chords of the piano struck- more of a whisper, beckoning to the ear to listen closely to the moves that the hands of the pianist made.

He needed no orchestra, no- the sounds of his piano was sufficient to contain the silence of a musical hall, soaking in its richness of emotions being displayed while the music was at play. Each note was already held out distinctively from each other, yet when put together in harmony; the chords seemed to have drawn so much strength from each note, it was as though a splash of colour has just been added to an already striking black-and-white portrait.

The effects thereafter, were just as astoundingly magnificent- and as well-arrayed as the arrangement of the music itself. A lone hand at play evoked feelings of solitude and loneliness. while a slow transition of chords was made perfect company for a walk in the words on a cool evening- "just like being made for the classic romantic movies", so to speak. I for one, cannot think of a better accompaniment to a good book in hand for an evening well-spent.

The music softens, as the piano slowly 'descended' to nothing more than a dying whisper. Yet, rarely did the listener leave unmoved.

He left with much pleasure; and the tune pretty much in his head.

Such is the might of the hands of a pianist, when his masterpiece is at play.