The westerly wind shakes the willow branches
outside my room with the bug-stained windows
that were installed to give dim light touches
of vibrant light atop my piano,
whose keys have not been touched in centuries,
it feels, like bleached bones in a dry desert,
though once it was the greatest of pleasures
to sit and play Busoni's Elegies;
so, instead, I sing a sonetto aloud
to the memories you and I shared once
long ago before my life fell into shroud,
unspeakable, all-encompassing darkness…
Alive am I but a light in a tomb,
locked inside this broken body, I am in.