The Pianist by Maeve Hagerty

She was perched at the piano with fingers raw and worn. Tired was her face and weary was her form. Her feet lingered on the pedals: her eyes forlorn. Piles of papers lingered around her on the floor, But those fingers on their ivory keys still yearned for more. Melodies spun from her hands, around the house, and out her open door To a world awaiting the sounds: The sonatas and the rounds; The concertos drifting from air to distant grounds, So that another girl with fingers bound To books and pens and papers in mounds Could rest a tranquil moment in peace profound.