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Your percussion becomes a domed playground, And I'm swept by the cacophony of your sound. The cry of the violins moves me to tears, And you soothe my fears through all the years.
With delicate fingers An ancient song is woven from the soils of melancholy and ambition Notes articulated each to their own Black ink expressed with charisma on the white parchment
My grandfather's smile leads me forever
An instrument you may be you hold souls of old and play the merry spirits of past days. You speak of sorrow, and of joy, and many emotions in between.   Your silver sheen reflects both
If Music--be the Food Of Love--Play on Through streams of Oil-- And mend the crude Thoughts of Man.
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