Piano Stool

Silent night
in the composers' locked cell:

Frederic coughs, Old Bach snores,
Wolf lies down with Franz.

Even you, Claude
(yes, you---nearest the hatch,

first released,
last imprisoned each day),

sleep, finally, hidden
from all the moonlight

and watery noises.
Tomorrow

you will each be taken
separately

for exercise
and further questioning:

painful, perhaps,
but only to the ear;

for make no mistake,
one day you will sing

loudly, perfectly,
spilling everything,

and everything
will suddenly be clear.