Musicians are made of music,
As though there exists a music gene.
For accomplished artists, it's no trick,
But benefit of exquisite training.
You feel the presence of votive force.
The notes, even the shaping of line,
Are pleasing, like a poem's off-rhyme,
But talent, not music, is their source.
The players make of air a force
That governs the fluidity of time.
They understand that beauty is fleeting,
That this song, now, is their only chance,
That perfection seldom knows repeating,
And thrust at our hearts like a lance.
