Horn
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I celebrate peace with a white petaled rose,
As the woes of a long war begins close.
Though the principle I did not opposed.
Singing and dancing and ridding my horse,
Silence.
Pure and refined silence.
I struggle to find meaning in the sounds.
To make music is to paint a picture with no canvas.
A lone hand embraces my soul;
Gripping me, carrying me, holding me.
