A lone mediocre player clumsily picking away on a decrepit piano.
Though, in this context mediocre does not matter nor offend.
For there are no ears to listen, no audience to applaud.
Only the most beautiful silence never heard.

Before, they had stood at the bottom of a rail bridge.
Leaned over and watched the river slipping slowly beneath them.
And suddenly, they knew everything there is to be known.

They knew then, that after the piano playing was done.
And the inspiration was gone.

That their invariable point of prestige,
and mark of aspiration.
Was being able to see the miraculous in the common