Wolfgang feels fear in freezing frames
of an elderly trumpet,
shining in pride of a golden brass.
He waves his talent
as a knight, defeated by love,
who shakes his princess gift
in a screeming crowd of winners
dead men
Wolfgang and his name,
howling in a night of silver chords,
walking like a pigeon in the sky,
flying like an artist in a world of engineers.
His music is a stepping stone of wind,
she allows you to plunge into the deep lake of your soul
she allows you to count your days writing in the sand
lovely cuddled by the uncertain tied of a sea in diamonds
His music is a purple rain of dreams
on the hills and chasms of Monnalisa
she gently obliges you to feel
she gently obliges you to live
she gently obliges you to leave
Your heart in a flight of swallows
Wolfang would never
No man would ever
trouble his soul to imitate
something he does not already feel a part of himself
like a stone on a crown
like a finger on a hand
like a dream in a mind
like craziness in virtue
Never forget your magnificence
is in your soul,
not in the clay
of feelings - people - events
you are modelling
in your life.
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