Wasting Away in Mallorca

"Don't be hysterical, my precious George, - 

Chopin said through his cough, -

The petty rain is falling incessantly. I pledge:

I'm sick of these damp walls and lot!”

And the island of Mallorca, through the wet haze,

Rushes on like a brig without a crew;

On it, surviving on a slippery corner base

Stands the monastery, their only solace a few.

The piano, with its lid closed, mourns,

And the keys weep silently;

Concerts, successes have faded into the  morn,

The painful stagnation is remains only.

The bloodless Chopin is already coughing up blood,

And his face is pale as a shroud;

And there is no one to cry out among the gloomy around:

"To you, the composer, Hosanna!"

However, this hardship did not prevent them to a stud,

From  continuing their noble work  comeo:

Chopin there composed his "Raindrop" Prelude,

George Sand wrote her novel "Consuelo".