The maestro sits in a chamber of echoes,
bathed in the glow of unsung notes
that dance like shadows on the wall.
Crescendo in quietude,
a fervor of voids and echoes,
the lament of a single unstruck chord.
"Silence is golden," they say,
yet here it is, silver-filled,
a clamor of muted instruments
in a symphony no one dares to hear.
The violin weeps in solitude,
its strings vibrating with absence,
a harmony of nothingness.
Here, the nonsense soup simmers.
Conduct your thoughts,
with an engine of candlesticks,
a bizarre machine, glimmering and bright,
yet wholly untouched by the hands of time.
Can you hear it?