The Music of Time
Time is the greatest, yet cruelest composer,
It has already written its own melody on us.
Our wrinkles and scars are its notes,
Our skin is its sheet,
And our body is its instrument.
Although, you're so far, far away,
I can still hear your music
Crystal-clearly.
It resonates gently, swirls whisperly
Through ages and lands.
Your melody is consist of the sweetest
And most enchanted harmonic minor scale.
The tempo is between andante and largo,
Yet the dynamics is neither pianissimo,
Nor mezzo-forte; just perfect.
Strumming those golden strings
Which evoke those soft, vibrating sounds,
Your music is calling me from the distance
Embracingly and overwhelmingly;
Never let me go.
I know so well your music; by heart.
It's echoing and reverberating in my mind.
So, if I ever lost all of my senses,
I would say I do not need any of them;
Just the two of my hands
For making music on
The most precious instrument of Time.
Before everything vanishes.
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