I turn on a relic from an age gone by.
A record squeaks and slowly starts to whirl,
taking me back to an era long past.
The room fills up with strings and brass;
a sound of history, starting off audaciously and bold.
It dwells off, turning timid with a flirt of flair.
A rhythm that shared unique similarities,
making me surmise I put on a broken record,
which cordially invited me to a passionate waltz;
A ballroom with dresses woven by silken emotions.
decorated ceilings and aquarelles painted with sentiments
of the gone times of gallantry and masquerades.
No room for stoic expressions, only archaic facades,
which slowly fade away as the music dies,
making the phantoms of history return to their graves.
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