We saw the rise and fall of melody,
The tuning and detuning of a tone,
Rhythms sprung then stretched like jackhammer beats
And lyrics wrenched, all rhyme, no prosody.
We’ve returned to beating skin with a bone
And symphonies are nothing but repeats.
Once lovers were courted by serenade —
The woman in her boudoir with a lute,
Her suitor in the garden with a flute —
Notes intertwining before they must fade.
Music was a language then, not sound,
The tracing of a portal to the heart,
How emotions given voice were found
Not mortal, but a becoming of art.
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