Magic

The water is still, silence's swimming. Hark, here are the Great Moscow's Bells. Thrice they ring like grave soulquakes ; three lingering notes...one for the cold night, one for lost beloved, one last to wrench the skies.
Shake, shake! Above the resonance, rises another melody : ring the tiny bells, whispering to the stars. A story they try to weave, a world of numb spirits and calm springs. But here and there the Great Moscow's Bells call thrice, spliting the lakes in two. Stronger and fiercer they grow until the Moon splinters and fades like flour lost in snow.
Silence crawls in, and from the consumed coals

rises a spidery cry, a racing tempest. Man's sorrow turns the stars into shrieking bells, and the whole night's shouting raw.
Painful stabs, o airy bells! Mighty music swells, tumultuous. Powerful music's squashing all mountains, a lone meteor burning sky's cheek.

Thunderous music gushes from the bleeding heart,
Alone on the deserted steppes cries the man, his grave grief one with the Great Moscow's Bells lost melody.

Prelude in Do #...how come pianists don't melt on the white and black keys when they play it? Why don't people eyes break like creaking mirrors?
Dizzy fingers, such is Rachmaninov's magic.