Tiny hairs live upon musical notes,
delicate and unseen by human eyes
each one trembling with ancient memory,
untouched by the conductor’s desperate wand.
They sway to
whispers in the spaces between sound,
drawn by echoes lightly stitched
they are the hush of moonlit breath.
The cello moans,
and they rise like ghosts.
The flute calls, and they spiral like smoke
from the lips.
No man commands
them.
They answer only to the sacred hum,
to the song that existed
before time dared listen.
1 comment:
The tiny hairs come first and then the tiny tears! Music has the power to move you in beautiful ways........all except Rap that is.
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