Garry Moore Poem by Mario, Lucien, Rene Odekerken
Garry Moore
Fingers move like whispers on steel,
bending time, bending sorrow.
Each note a story,
each chord a cry from somewhere deep.
The blues live in his hands,
in the weight of every pause,
In the fire that burns slow,
never fading, only growing.
Some voices never need words,
some souls speak only through strings.
Even now, when silence lingers,
his music still answers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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8/28/2026 8:07:06 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
