There’s nothing that matches the feeling of hands gliding across a piano:
running through a river of notes, creating whirlpools of melodies,
and finding solace in the darkness and waterfalls of notes.
Control is forsaken in the quiet of the afternoon,
leaving one to the mercy of patterns and familiar routes.
The echoing sounds cascade onto the stones,
And they glisten with the flecks of light that dance across them.
The droplets striate the rocks with lines of darkness,
meeting together to form rivulets that merge, collide,
intersect, and find harmony: a crescendo of sounds and color.
They form a melancholic creek that twists and turns endlessly,
but that dissipates into nothingness at a distance:
left as nothing, but a grasp of thin air,
a handful of dust, swept away by the wind.
Such is the nature of sounds, bound to wither away in its beauty:
simply meandering streams, lost among the lands
Maybe they will meet the ocean someday.