Oh sweet harmony rolling in the spheres,
the rose scented flavors inside the lining,
permeating the surrounding air all around,
music flowing from the heat of the rainbows
through the sound holes of the violins
into the magic air made sweet
to mingle with the other lonely sounds
of each instrument in search of
a beautiful sound with another
to form a harmonious camaraderie,
a camaraderie that sprouts its wings
and transports us to the stately rose gardens
or flies us up to smell the scent of heaven
through the portals of the liquid cathedrals
and feel heaven’s hands massaging our spirit
as we luxuriate in its euphonic lap,
we who can hear the voice of the music,
its secret code meant for us to digest,
the fragility of the ears of our hearts
that yearns for a specific sound
unheard by the masses but
ingrained in our hearts by our creator
to fortify the influence of culture
and stimulate its progression.
Why else are we different from them?
Why do we hear what they don’t?
Why can’t we be amused like they do?
Why must we suffer among their insensitivity?
Why can’t we be satisfied like they are?
But how else can culture be progressive?