An elegant wind makes her presense into the room.
My tunic blemished with frustration.
I recall the last symphony I composed.
A sucess. No. A might success.
Music paper carpets my already clustered stone floor.
Ink stains my fingers- a constant reminder
that perhaps working in the key of C minor
is making a fool of myself.
The grand piano sits idly. The ebony keys
longing to be played. Yet,
she taunts me, make me relocate to the warmth of the kitchen.
The stove welcomes me. The boiling water dances
at an andante. Mimicking the sounds of oboes.
Perhaps I should give up,
The third symphony is what I will be known for.
The wind blows with an allegro pace.
The oak leaves hit against the brick. The sounds of
timpani’s easily impersonated by the lightest creature.
Mother’s clay pot rest on the table.
The geese outside anger me, strutting around
owning my garden. A delegation. I scream.
frustration escapes my lungs. The geese, startled,
trumpet in a scherzo like manner.
Amazed.
I furrow. My thoughts stopped.
The robin lands on the sill, waltzing
with purpose. The plucking of violins in high register.
Excitement.
I get up with a clash of the symbols
forcefully bang on the table. My eyes widen.
Rage. I see mother’s clay bowl descend.
“Thud thud thud thud” ( I will clean later)
C minor will not make a fool out of me.
Adrenaline walks me away, humming.
Humming the sound the clay pot made as it hit the floor?
It cannot be.
My, Beethoven’s, fifth symphony.
A masterwork of the Royal Albert Hall.
Inspired by the trumpeting geese, violin waltzing robin and-
the simple fall of a clay pot.
Shama Doshi
