My Chopin enters my heart
Weeping!
In the most beautiful way,
It enters when the heart beats fast,
Or when it cries as I play.
He is sneaky that way,
He understands you, he knows,
In music he wrote,
As if he knew all the grieving hearts,
And sprinkled them with trilling notes.
My Chopin, the loveliest of them all,
The sweetest, the sentimental,
The one with the eternal deep soul,
That touches only with note petals.
His melodies, sweet,
If butterflies could sing,
If a cry had its own vocalize,
It would only be in the notes of Chopin,
He cries, and yet sings,
As if a sad song, had its own bliss;
He lifts you up, as if a cry,
Was a passage to stand up,
With an ascending arpeggio,
Carrying you to heights
that cascade with delight.
That is my Chopin,
That is why,
In happiness or when I cry,
My Chopin is my Chopin,
The colossal heart, which,
Envelopes me in,
And does not let me die;
The go to person
When in need of an escape,
Or for just a heart to soar and gleam.