Translation of "O Conto do Piano Branco", written in Portuguese by Kollynew.


The end.

The composer's dead, but he doesn't know it yet. He refuses to believe that life is too fragile and that it may end. He lies to himself while strumming his piano keys, and I believe it as well.

Beautiful songs, incomplete songs, false songs, only for me. I was bewitched by the melody of his music and voice, even if there was no rhyme. There was no need for it. I was always satisfied with fake words, because it was enough that they only seemed real.

Through the melody, he told me his secrets and dreams, made me his in the purest sense of the word. Tom enchanted me with his deep black eyes, making me desire to have him by my side forever, composing, lying only to me. I was young and foolish, but anyone would be if they could hear the tone* of his piano.

He was born out of silence, always remaining that way. The words were few and, day after day, it was only me, him and the piano. Tom and I and the music of our silent souls that had everything to say, but that were silent before the first note.

His serenity confused my thoughts, left me without defenses, made me his best friend. It was the perfect concerto, made with his agonizing songs and lies that didn't rhyme. And yet, everything was beautifully told by his voice and fingers that, only in my dreams, I still see passing through the keys of the white piano.

Now there's only silence. There are no more notes, songs, lies or white pianos. Everything that exists is the silence of a soul that has forgotten how to sing.

The boy who wished to be immortal is dead and the girl who wished to be heard keeps refusing to believe that she's alone again.

* In Portuguese, tone = tom, like the character's name, hence the use of the word and the italics.