Crescendo

Of black keys running over white,
Of insects in the night
Of toms, cymbals and snares,
Of early morning prayers
Of orchestrated strings,
Of raindrops and fluttering wings
Of a vocalist and his tunes
Of winds flying over sand dunes
Of crash, boom & bang
Of formal, of slang
Of bells and gongs,
Of campfire songs,
Sounds here and there,
Rhythm everywhere
From large audience feats,
To metronomic heart beats
From hollow wooden flutes
To marching army boots
From brass French horns
To after-death mourns
Constantly playing, never ending
Beats ascending and descending
All situations, any emotion,
All regions, any nation.
On it, we all thrive,
Music makes you feel alive.