Yours is the lullaby saved for thunderstorms, where boys like me gather courage to face the rain.

Yours is the music for dancing in the rain.

Yours is the one legged soldier at the end of the war, thanking God in the language of the enemy.

Yours is the light at the end of the tunnel and every bit of darkness still left in between.

Some words are better left unsaid, so we let you carry language in your keys and our voices are the doors you always seem to open. Like the number of times Beethoven used you to explain that true music is one part sound and one part vibration, one for the body and one for the soul. So we gather the dancing souls of deaf men like fireflies in a jar, something to chase the night and green the moon with envy.