What is it, I mouth,
hands criss-crossing and expressions defined.
What is it, I ask,
I don’t understand what this is.

What are you doing?
Fingers forcing themselves on white and black rectangles,
While in sync with heavy
cylinders torturing fragile wires
and feet
tapping on bronze
with a mind of their own.

Why is she doing that?
Strings clashing together in a screech,
up and down
and up and down
with delicate hands gracefully guiding
and the threads battle as they wear off
from their wooden homes.

My eyes gleam with curiosity,
for fingers pluck upon metal wires,
and black knobs are turned,
emitting a shrill tune.
The odd shape
is gently cradled by skin,
as he summons a plastic chip
and they glide upon the surface.

Plastic skin covers an empty bottom,
accompanied with thin metal
and thick chopsticks.
I strike the object
with childish mischief,
and it reacts
with a deafening boom.

A lonely tube is hurt,
filled with holes and bent at one end.
It’s personal, they say,
no one is allowed,
air enters the tube,
and a melody emerges.

“What is it,” I ask
once more,
hands forming into a clef.
I listen
and they reply,


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