A travel from the home of sound,
As quiet as a place inside the womb,
From a stirring of the listless tides,
A quiet thunder into a sweeter air,
A note plucked on a string of the harp,
A riding with the Gods of music
Upon the backs of swiftly moving steeds
On a pilgrimage to the ears of the heart,
Racing across the crimson sunsets
Through rose scented conduits,
Along an exotic path to an exotic isle,
To a sacred place where the spirit lives,
A blending with other notes into a family
Of another name but on the same mission,
The same softening of the hearts of iron,
The anti-lovers who
Submit to the power of music,
Who built their universe on grounds of stone,
But whose knees weaken like a virgin’s kiss
Upon her launching out into the sea of love,
And her drifting wherever love leads her to,
Where the music dictates the feelings to be felt
And thoughts to be thought,
Where the anti-lover loses his manliness,
His identification with the lone wild beast,
Oblivious to the enchantment of sound,
The language of the music dictators,
The ones who travel through the ether
And land on a place in the heart,
A place reserved for his beguilement.
All hail to the power of music,
On its enchanting travels
That moves the immovable
And tames the wild beast.

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