One icy winter evening an eight-year-old
walked across our High School stage
to a Steinway concert grand
where she sat with dangling feet
playing an Allemande
by Johann Sebastian Bach

that every one of us
lept to our feet and clapped
almost before she had finished.
She came to the edge and curtsied,
we applauded and kept on
till she returned, nine times,
sobbing at first, faltering next,
brushing away tears
trembling, then falling.
They carried her from the stage,
her parents' hands
that had been waiting in the wings.
Our clapping, already muffled, slowed,
with awareness dawning,
then ceased altogether
as light burst in upon our debacle
and we understood,
as if some radient avenger had come
to retaliate for our error,
by making us conscious
and we understood,
as if some radient avenger had come
to retaliate for our error,
by making us conscious
of the suffering
we had caused her.
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