Panic tightens the delicate strings of the spirit,
Pulling the soul out of tune -
Sharper, shriller, tighter - hear it?
An ill-timed strum snaps, the chord cut too soon.
Worry wears the finish off the heart,
Dull and listless where once was shiny-bright.
Sure, the tune still plays, but sometimes the art
Of the symphony's not only sound, but sight.
Sulking warps the soundboard. Eardrums shatter
When self-importance tries to play the blues.
But no matter what the intonation, nothing's sadder
Than an instrument or heart that sits unused.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A profound and inspirational poem.