The Sound of Music

The Sound of Music

In a garden where the morning mist roams,
the air is draped with a muted, silver dome.
A piano, tired of birch‑trimmed shafts,
whispers its chords, breaking dawn’s soft drafts.

The strings, like rain on cobblestone, hum,
and each note echoes the garden’s drum.
A flute whispers through the hedgerows tall,
where ivy tends to music’s quiet call.

At the foot of the old oak’s broad green eave,
children gather, cheeks rosy, hearts in weave.
The conductor’s baton, a brass‑outlined guide,
calls all the instruments to share their stride.

The sound ripples across the chapel’s white pane,
lacing the choir’s harmony with gentle rain.
Bass drums stamp in the hall’s hushed poise,
while violins float, soaring, every choice.

An orchestra, a choir, a voice all true,
blends with the wind that bleeds its amber hue.
They play for the world with crystal sound,
where every heart on music’s thread is bound.

So let the music cradle your silver soul,
engrave your joy in the neatest of each role –
for in every cadence of blessed tune,
the world finds its own eternal dune.