Grasp the wooden violin, touch it, breathe it,
let its rich and velvety smoothness thrill you
tempt you, tease you, making you dream of playing;
hopes will not harm you.

Why can’t music transfer to words of beauty?
Can the cello’s tone be a color? Orange? Purple?
What would trumpets taste like if they were eaten?
How can I know this?

Listen to the cry of the oboe, calling
listeners, leading, drawing them to a slow march.
Only when the music has stopped do hearers
realize they’re dying.

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