and though Nikkoao's hand
cannot span an octave,
his polished oxfords a foot
from the pedals,
what the boy plays
causes eyes to widen
then look away

The boy is playing a lamp,
jewel-encrusted gift
from the Han ruler to his daughter
both dead these thousand years,

and the little lamp--
shape of a nightingale--
smashed by infidels
who burned the monastery
where it was hidden
he plays that too

Men who wept when they saw it
then wept to tell it
in their books of wisdom
as we do to hear it still.
If the emperor's light was not safe
under all those bushels,
still, how can a child play a lamp
on the piano
his shiny black hair a bowl
his face a spoon

Dr. Nguyen scrunches down in his seat
There are only two kinds of questions worth asking:
those which are unanswerable
and those to which the answer is so sweet
one can only turn away.

An example, perhaps, of both:
the poet wrote, why do I feel tears rise
when I look at cherry blossoms
on the ground

How can the child play that poem?
At last Doctor Nyuyen sees the music
for what it was long ago
reborn