Fingers

My ten stubby fingers.
They used to dance on the piano keys.
Waltzing between the blacks and whites,
they made music and art
together with Debussy and Mozart.
They were trained to precision,
crafting the perfect tone.
They were dedicated to art,
they were dedicated to beauty.
Today they no longer dance,
but fumble clumsily across the laptop keyboard,
making monotonous typing noise.
Corrupted they are now,
for betraying the art of beauty.

*

I went to my housemate's practice recital earlier on. He played Schubert, Beethoven, Liszt and another one which I can't remember. At least I can still follow the score with my eyes. At least I was not lost among the notes and music symbols. I gave some pretty constructive criticism. But to be a critic who can no longer play, that's very lame.