A Protege Reborn

In a way long forgot,
He steps on to the stage,
On the loneliest boards,
A young mind filled with rage.

He sits at the piano,
His own fine crafted tool,
And his fingers do itch,
While old curses do call.

But he pushes them back,
With melodious sounds,
Which for fifteen long years,
Echoed through empty grounds.

No agents had called,
No concerts, not a word,
He'd regressed from his fans,
And from fame was deterred.

But he'd changed, over time,
Far away from the sun,
In a crumbling mansion,
Somewhere in Lisbon.

There's no change in the music,
Old Bach's still the same,
But the child is a man,
And the tempest is tame.

Now the audience stare,
They remember the boy,
With an ivory weapon,
He used like a toy.

They're silent in the stalls,
They've all longed for this day,
Now his suffering's dead,
They have their protege.