Harps of gold,
Cords of silver,
Harmony of souls,
This potpourri in compositions,
Symphonic poems played
not in concert halls,
but on streets by those
who feel beyond the days
and see the darkest nights,
Their overture done in prose,
These minstrels to carry heaven's zither,
and strike cords to sonata,
as winds carry this melodious sound--
of metrics.
My grandfather played the zither, so the title drew my attention...You used the instrument to create something entirely different...imaginative, Gail. I must agree with Allen...you caught me up in your vision as well.
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Allen