Beyond the imprisoned symphony,
violins right and woodwinds left,
past the books and French doors,
the painted landscape waits
for you to make it sing.
The night, with all its
dark and hidden noise,
I shut outside
for sadder sounds
of emptiness,
of voiceless walls
that echo with the sound
of only music.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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