"Music flows like uncertainty creeps" the young scribe writes in his book.
Such like the rainbow that creeps around morning suns and crescent moons
as time crept and formed the regal twist of a grandmother willow.
This magic is the most uncertain uncertainties of them all;
the magic that is held in the musician's ears.
This musician simply breathes and is sustained
he is a musician who sleeps and lives
and for each musician who ever walked one day of life
there is a song that goes unheard.
So sing me the song you hear, young musician,
try to mend together the best words you can find.
Take the rhythm sung from the river's mouth
be the beat behind each verse.
Let each verse, young scribe,
flow from the ceaseless river of your mind
into the sea; the sea of uncertainty.
For that song that plays within you, but cannot escape
no matter what instrument you play,
yes, you know the song, but from where does it come?
From where does the music flow? the magic bestowed?
Why is there beauty in this world, music in my ears?
The answer is one only of uncertain nature,
but nonetheless not less true.
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