Music is light, hearing's sight
Each thing makes its own color, its own tone
Each thing makes its own tone, its own note

See the leaves, blowing in major thirds in the breeze
When a gust must move the trees' bones to semitones
A lone leaf, lost in its arpeggios goes across the meadows of continuum
That drum the tonic drone beneath the other waves of harmony
Their cadence carrying the call with five quarters
Steady -- yet -- never -- quite -- stable
Always able to to dabble on the stick of the wind

Sometimes you can see the rain glissando from the sky
A bright sforzando lights up the night with the sun's fortissimo
Everything in a hushed tremolo, as the rolling bass takes the melody
Then back to the lightless piano, and adieu with the dew's morendo

Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Mayan, in the year 334 AF.