The Ballad

You once told me music could be made from anything in the world. I didn't believe you for a long time. I used to drive the streets of where we loved hearing soft murmurs of music in the folds of the tree trunks and the ripples of the rivers. I understood that music could come from the very depths of some being . But not from anything .

_{When words fail me,
Listen to my Musique,
Fold into the Melody,
Of a haunting Echo.}

I listened hard when I walked through cool green fields of tall grass leaning to its neighbours. I heard the beat of an owls wings last night - you probably wouldn't  believe me if I had told you that I could pick out the sounds of grass being torn from soil as the animals had their feed. But I could. Still, music didn't occur in everything I saw.

_{With every Chord,
Accept my apology,
And every Forte,
Believe my love.}

I couldn't admit it until the day came when your cell door clanged shut with a resounding ring of finality. That was when I knew that music could be made from anything in the world. I hated you with all the vengence in the world - because you had hurt me and because you were - eventually - right.  From the pound of a judges gavel, to the scratch of a pen on a reporters notebook - music was everywhere the day you went down. Even you couldn't ignore it as staves and trebles flickered across your iris.

_{With each Crescendo,
Read my regrets,
And see my dreams,
In Dolce Piano.}

A whole ensemble whispered through my head the day they locked you away – the keening cry of a violin came first. It was solitary and lilting, playing a melody I never imagined would hurt so much. It played on the hollow grooves of the skeleton we once fought over.  This was the ghost of the girl that you killed.

_{In my Appassionato,
Follow my curve,
Take my lead,
In falling Amoroso.}

After that came the lonely strums of a traditional Guitar whilst somebody stroked the Ivories in melancholic accompaniment. Those were the friends you once had.
There were Harps and Flutes, blended together to make the most aching of melodies – those were the women who thought they still loved you.
Your father's piece came with the Scottish Bagpipes. It was a negative tune of course, but on each rise of the pipes there was a ring of disappointment and regret for a mislead man and a troubled youth.

The Saxophone played the blues as anyone could have predicted it would. I couldn't decide who brought the Saxophone – I reasoned that it was the few people who believed in you the whole way through. They were bereft of you the minute the sentancing came.

Last to  follow was the voice, a soft wail to start with, rising into an unbearable banshee scream.  Every woman who had a child heard that scream for miles and miles. It echoed from the walls of nurseries to the walls of universities and grandchildren. It spoke of loss – of a grief that no one could ever understand. That was your mother.

_{My hands travel the keys,
Perusing the ivory,
Dolcimisso, doloroso.
But always espressivo.}

But finally came the uplifting beat of the Drums followed by a Marching Band. As the key turned in the lock and sectioned you into your small metal room – the crescendo began.

_{Geschwind, Getragen, Giocoso,
I play you with gustoso.
As you watch with Lamentoso,
I smile at you Lusingando.}

Rumble after rumble – a joyous sound built from the final depths of your condemned soul. A celebration - a confirmation that this was right - rained down upon your head with the force of the people you had scorned. You couldn't touch us now.  Lilting and high, Fortissimo and Acceso until... Niente...

That was me – I brought the trumpets.

_{My Nocturne is for you,
My voice Roulade,
Sognondo, Sospirando,
With Zartheit and Calendo...Encore.}