It starts as a blank page, no lines, no words, no notes.
Gradually the staff of life appears, and music around it floats.
The title flickers as a name is given and then takes hold,
A soft steady beat begins, new, yet ancient and old.
It will grow and build during the teen years then in midlife slow,
A melody soft, gently rising high then fading again to low.
Sometimes moving with a frenzy of motion, then only a steady drone,
Each phase of life moves along with a melody and rhythm all it's own.
The harmony of thousands of interests and voices intermixes with this song.
Here a cordial harmony, there a contrapuntal melody from the throng.
There are no repeats, no 2nd endings, the bars move steadily on,
Measuring life's passage, as do the sunset and the dawn.
The beat accelerates, the rhythm driven on before pausing for a bird's eye view,
Feel then the strength in tragedy or joy as it is frozen in review.
Off again with a fanfare of horns, the sounds of life are made,
Crescendoing until the final cymbal crash of the symphony is played.
And when the overture is complete and deaths silence reigns at last,
Will the audience stand and applaud for the song of life which past?
May the music of this life be remembered then with joyful tears,
And may the song be played back often through the passing of the years.
Gradually the staff of life appears, and music around it floats.
The title flickers as a name is given and then takes hold,
A soft steady beat begins, new, yet ancient and old.
It will grow and build during the teen years then in midlife slow,
A melody soft, gently rising high then fading again to low.
Sometimes moving with a frenzy of motion, then only a steady drone,
Each phase of life moves along with a melody and rhythm all it's own.
The harmony of thousands of interests and voices intermixes with this song.
Here a cordial harmony, there a contrapuntal melody from the throng.
There are no repeats, no 2nd endings, the bars move steadily on,
Measuring life's passage, as do the sunset and the dawn.
The beat accelerates, the rhythm driven on before pausing for a bird's eye view,
Feel then the strength in tragedy or joy as it is frozen in review.
Off again with a fanfare of horns, the sounds of life are made,
Crescendoing until the final cymbal crash of the symphony is played.
And when the overture is complete and deaths silence reigns at last,
Will the audience stand and applaud for the song of life which past?
May the music of this life be remembered then with joyful tears,
And may the song be played back often through the passing of the years.
