How it must feel to be a competitor of the Coupe Mondiale (World Cup of accordion playing). :p
I was ther listening to this years World Cup in Oslo where my good friend was competing.
then I stare out into the spotlights so bright,
I know nothing in the skills of judgification,
yet I musn't screw this up, that would be my largest fright!
I slowly raise my arm and my fingers touch the buttons so lightly,
then I carefully pull the bellow, so soft as I possibly can.
The sound that emits from the instrument is a pianissimo heard barely slightly.
The sweat starts to dripple down my bone-white countenance, rolling over my lips and chin,
The music it fills my soul, my blood, my very essance of life,
The light of the spotlight is reflected in my delicate skin.
Two-three minutes, maybe even four
they have already passed,
Where did those minutes go, surely not through the door,
Am I playing my song way too fast?
My mind it has traveled to some foreign land,
Can it be so?
I see how I tremble as I gaze upon my outstretched hand
The song is nearly at its end and I can let go
A moment of silence, then the audiences deafaning cheer,
Did I play that well, it cannot be true?
But yes, and towards the prize my course must steer,
Champion of the Coupe Mondiale?
Only in my dreams... :p
Poetry by Sabrina
Read 446 times
Written on 2006-10-24 at 19:02
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I was ther listening to this years World Cup in Oslo where my good friend was competing.
Coupe Mondiale
A last breath of anticipation,then I stare out into the spotlights so bright,
I know nothing in the skills of judgification,
yet I musn't screw this up, that would be my largest fright!
I slowly raise my arm and my fingers touch the buttons so lightly,
then I carefully pull the bellow, so soft as I possibly can.
The sound that emits from the instrument is a pianissimo heard barely slightly.
The sweat starts to dripple down my bone-white countenance, rolling over my lips and chin,
The music it fills my soul, my blood, my very essance of life,
The light of the spotlight is reflected in my delicate skin.
Two-three minutes, maybe even four
they have already passed,
Where did those minutes go, surely not through the door,
Am I playing my song way too fast?
My mind it has traveled to some foreign land,
Can it be so?
I see how I tremble as I gaze upon my outstretched hand
The song is nearly at its end and I can let go
A moment of silence, then the audiences deafaning cheer,
Did I play that well, it cannot be true?
But yes, and towards the prize my course must steer,
Champion of the Coupe Mondiale?
Only in my dreams... :p
Poetry by Sabrina
Read 446 times
Written on 2006-10-24 at 19:02
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