Musician

The quiet musician sits on the chair,
In front lies his stand,

His instrument is propped against his shoulder,
His face is lowered and his eyes stare solemnly at the floor.

He raises his head and his eyes search the ceiling,
Looking for the heavenly light,

He lifts his violin and steadies his body,
His head is held high, his eyes are steady,

The room is silent, dark, and still.

A note slowly raise from the ground like a morning fog,
An unknown chord is struck,

The baton swirls up and down,
The strings quiver, urging music onward,

A river of sound flows forth from an unseen crevasse,
The violas join, lifting chords that carry emotion with them.

Sadness cries out to the audience,
Sympathy is soon to follow.

The trumpets join, blasting their long clear notes,
The notes are gathering speed.

Triumph rings out, fear screeches, happiness shouts,
Solemnity and sorrow cry their sad sore tunes.

A teardrop lowers from the young musicians eye,
A touch of God, of love, of life.

The young musician bows his head,
The now-soft notes die away.