There is something so comforting in the sound
of a bassoon singing strongly and deeply,
filling all the dark corners of a concert hall.
Even violins quit whining and hum in tune
with piccolos pecking like sparrows looking for seeds.
Notes from the flutes flutter down like petals
leaving a springtime tree. The old bassoon
cups his sounds around each fragrant bloom
and holds harmony carefully with aged hands.
When other brass instruments try
to intimidate him, his laugh is infectious,
leaping smoothly over the trombone’s slide
and ignoring the blast from a shiny trumpet.
Percussive thunder from the kettle drum
does not frighten him. His tone says,
“Be at peace. All is well in the world”
Then the audience stops their restless stirring
and hears him with calm hearts and easy ears.
At last, the maestro takes his final bows,
the bassoon silenced and we leave consoled.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem