The Priory Lit. Mag

The language of music is sitting on the piano bench,
laying hands down softly on the ivory keys
playing whatever comes to mind,
whatever is in the heart.

The language of music is listening to the birds happily play,
the river quietly flows across the wet rocks,
the crickets mournfully sing,
chirping for endless miles.

The language of music is a glorious, thunderous orchestra
Rich mahogany violins string their melodious tunes
Gold trumpets play strong harmonies,
everything is perfect.

The language of music is someone calling softly in the darkness
glancing up at the bright stars
singing to the universe,
yet to no one.