The Soul Of Music Poem by pedro moshood

Music, they said, knows no bound
And it cuts across all quarters
If renders with perfect pitch and
Tuned with properly arranged rhythm.

Music is balm to the soul of the hopeless
As the melody set them upon their feet
While they break free from the prison of pains
And build an edifice from shattered hopes.

Music is not the disorganized noise in streets,
Written in a day and patched like a piece of rags
To a series of beats jumbled up by studio man
But cannot hold the audience bound for a year.


Modern Music, as language, is corrupted with F' and B'
Inspired by narcotics and alcoholic drinks
With half nude body of dancers and men smoking
Even though smokers are liable to die early.

I know good music, even before you sing it:
Music is fire that inspired the pen to write,
That calm the nerve after a stressful day,
That cut across the language of the writer.

Music, as they said, is the language of angels
And the business of the righteous in heaven.
Music outlive the composer and ever green
It remains forever just like the piece from Mozart.