Polonaise-Fantaisie

I think about it in my bedroom at night. I have been blessed with the people I have met.
My friends are surrounding my bed.
Delfina plays my favorite songs for me. I haven't forgotten about Maria and the others, of course. Konstancja, an angel will come soon, and with dignity and solemnity, I will be sent off peacefully.

Let me praise the courage I had on the day I set off, having decided to live with the piano.
In Vienna, and then in Paris, music was always with me wherever I went. Making the piano my life's companion was the best choice I ever made. Because it was fun. I, who was once plagued by anxiety, might have actually been a hero who led the Polish army to victory over Russia.
Father, Mother, and my sisters, you were all so happy for me. Learning from Mr. Żywny made me love the piano even more. I would fool around during high school classes, tell jokes, and we would all laugh together. Mr. Elsner raised me to be someone who lives for music. Though I have been unable to move for a long time now, wrapped in blankets like foot-binding, the memories of my homeland bring me joy.
Ah, I want to play the piano. I want to touch the piano just one more time. My brain has the melody, but my body cannot play it.
Fontana, what should I do? Titus, you are there too, aren't you? In Poland, my home. Mother, sister...

George. Some people say that meeting you was a misfortune. But when I think of myself as blessed, that includes meeting you.
Majorca was harsh. I caused you trouble because of my illness. It is not a lie that exploring the monastery was fun, but I ended up shedding blood during the Italian revolution as well. However, come to think of it, that was also good. Because you liked the sound of the rain that I played.
In Nohant, my composing went well, and I was always happy. It wasn't bad to be away from the salons. So I don't think it was a misfortune. Every day was fun, just like when I was back home.
You might be another mother to me.
Because you loved me just like my mother did. But a child does not know a parent's heart. The reason you were so angry must have been about Solange. What did I do wrong? Could you just tell me that, just that? Because I love my mother.

I want to live beautifully once more, in Paris, in Poland. No matter how much I wish for it, my body will not grant me anything.

Perhaps I should just stop praying and deliver my music to the audience in a distant country far from the revolution. If I do that, even if I lose everything, my art will live forever.
That is why I traveled even while covered in blood. Because I want at least my art to survive. In the freezing cold of England, it was impossible for me, but I want my music to live on.
If it is the friends who have walked with me, they will carry on my music even if this soul turns into a phantom. If I entrust my thoughts to music, I can weave words. How wonderful that is.
I want to write a piece. Just one more. I still have one Mazurka that is unfinished.

Ah, but it seems I am finally using everything up. If I cannot do it, then someone else will. I have been blessed with companions. Thank you. Thank you. At the moment when my voice gradually grew faint and cut off.
My heartbeat fades away as well.

Perhaps because it is a work from his final years, it gives the impression of having attained enlightenment. I think that when he started writing a Polonaise, he somehow got more and more invested, and in the end, it became this incredibly thoughtful masterpiece.

(00:50)
The opening maestoso is solemn. In a room that has become completely dark at night, the time for the final arrival is near. The opening chord is the final chord of the previous No. 6 "Heroic" with one note changed.
(02:42)
It switches with repeated octaves, and from here, the reminiscence continues endlessly.
The time of leaving Poland, and the boyhood before that. Though driven by anxiety, it was a good choice in retrospect. I was a unique student at school. As I remember those fun days, I begin to cry out earnestly to play the piano more. I don't know what to do anymore on my own. I think of the people I can rely on, and one of them was George Sand.
(07:05)

The end approaches, and it returns to the beginning.
(09:49)
I try to live the remaining time to the fullest. The main melody is played more majestically than ever before. But at the same time, my physical condition worsens. It is as if I am rushing through life.
(11:32)
The melody of the Coda appears ahead of time.
The strain took its toll and hastened my death. When the time finally comes, I accept my own end and leave the rest to my companions.
The last part.
Chopin himself breathed his last, ever so softly.

That is all; I added quite a bit from my imagination, packing it tightly into one piece, much like inserting an episode not found in historical facts into a historical drama.

However, the details were just added when I wrote the text, and it is fine if I can play it with this kind of image. Actually, I had finished writing it when someone said, "It's a good song, isn't it?" and I replied, "It is a good song," wondering whose perspective I was speaking from. No, when was that?
Actually, while I was playing, I wasn't thinking much, and it was 100% my mood at the time. I felt more energetic than I thought.

When I played the Heroic, I heard only the beginning and thought, "The next song is also good," or rather, because I was playing the CD in the car, I could only hear the beginning and the end, and I was just dazed. It was a recovery seven years in the making.

It was only 39 years, but I will show the reader's eyes that those 39 years were a dense time, as if it were rising from the sheet music. It was good that he died at 39. Thank you for leaving behind so many good songs.

But if he had lived longer, everything would have been completely different. Tuberculosis is a curable disease now, after all. If I were to be greedy, I would have liked to see what kind of songs he would have written after the age of 40.