tagNon-Erotic PoetryBeethovenhous

Beethovenhous

byLauren Hynde©

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The house where Beethoven was born
has four stories
but it is small
so small and cheerless:
after 233 years
it is tired.

The floorboards creak hazardously
under the feet of tourists
that walk slowly,
apprehensive.

In a corner
two period grand pianos
sit in silence
timidly
fearful of any
unwanted touch.

In every story
in every wall
are old portraits
and old scores
lie drowsily
in tarnished showcases.

Complementing
hearing apparatus
are the hazy eyeglasses
of the Maestro.

His house lies empty
because the Maestro
is gone.
Only in the garden
lingers still
in the soft murmur of foliage
an inaudible voice
a distant sound
that resonates within.


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