Keepers of the time hold the harps, and pluck the strings,
Sending the resonance of the future forward, and back
In the listeners ear, plotting every move, filling
The voids and molding, shaping, creating the destiny.
The sounds first pure, then impure, a learned amateur
Taking the expected mistakes in playing new notes,
Leading, guiding, misdirecting, sounds so close
To perfection, so close to tragedy.
Keepers of the time hold the harps, each listener
Discerning the tones and changes, the falling of a key,
The breaking of a crescendo, winds swept with music;
The calm of the pianissimo, direction to the end.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 10:17 PM UTC
Keepers of the time hold the harps, and pluck the strings,
Sending the resonance of the future forward, and back
In the listeners ear, plotting every move, filling
The voids and molding, shaping, creating the destiny.
The sounds first pure, then impure, a learned amateur
Taking the expected mistakes in playing new notes,
Leading, guiding, misdirecting, sounds so close
To perfection, so close to tragedy.
Keepers of the time hold the harps, each listener
Discerning the tones and changes, the falling of a key,
The breaking of a crescendo, winds swept with music;
The calm of the pianissimo, direction to the end.
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