The poet and the conductor

["Ah! poetry makes life what light and music do the stage"

- Charles Dickens, The Pickwick Papers]

When you find a friendship that is pure

Pure like the sound of a solo violin

It can be, to one’s soul wounds, a cure

And you got to take care of it

Take care like it was a treasure

As it really might be

You’ve been looking way too long

Just to find this perfect pitch

Be cautious about every single note you play

Pay attention to any sound

Your whispers might be heard

As if they were a symphony to a crowd

Take care of your intonation

And never forget to be well tuned

Your friend will listen carefully to you

While your strings and vocal cords move

But, wait!

Make sure you don’t put this friendship on a pedestal

Mozart and Beethoven are dead

And your friend is right here, right now

He is a real person

And what you see is the best he can be

A body made of flesh, blood and bones

A soul made of do, re, mi, fa, sol, la and si