“A painter paints his pictures on canvas. But musicians paint their pictures on silence.” Leopold Stokowski

Music ran twinkling into the room,

swerving past corners and racing the dust,

spinning on tiptoe till dizzy it must,

weave through the silence like wool through a loom.

Spun into patterns and colouring space,

Turning and dashing to dance with the air,

Waltzing and leaping as high as it dare,

And softly departing with never a trace.


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