Raymund, the Piano Man

It was the rhythm of the fingers Running through the black and white keys, The feathery strum of the hollow guitar and The beat of the arms that converses with the melodies. The voice of the soul is not lyrics but song That slowly lured the tie that has grown so strong. This poetry’s not aimed at singing the tune But only to hum the memory that began in a June. You lit the room where the poet longed for a brother And lay a hymn to the unsung dreams. You strike a chord at him not to grieve and bitter About life’s shrill discordant volumes.