If one day, I have a hall,

A grand dining room with candlelight tall,

I'd sit at the keys, just me and the night,

The moon pouring silver, the stars burning bright.

I'd play the piano, notes soft and slow,

While outside the window the constellations glow.

The room would hush with a velvet grace,

As echoes of Vincent drift through the space.

“Starry starry night…” I'd sing, so low,

“Paint your palette blue and grey…” and let it flow.

Each word a brushstroke on canvas air,

Each chord a whisper, a silent prayer.

The guests would pause, hearts held tight,

By tales of sorrow, of fragile light—

Of sunflowers blazing in yellow despair,

Of eyes that watched but found no care.

And I would wonder, as I played that tune,

If Van Gogh once dreamed beneath the same moon,

Of rooms filled with warmth, of art understood,

Of moments like this, where the world feels good.

So if one day, I build that dream right,

A hall of music, of soul, of night—

Then I'll play for the stars, for the ones who see

The beauty in silence, in madness, in me.

Poems of Tong