The Instrument, when raised from humble dirt,
Becomes a thing of finery renowned.
The Man whose being suffers great the hurt
Emerges nobly with a newborn sound.
But whether dream or conscious will becomes
Him now, as tool for Music must he rise.
And rise he does with Melody and Drums
The first from Laughter and the next from cries
Of working hands whose shovels clear the air
With powerful percussion. None can see,
However, how the Instrument will fair
And none can, with a certainty, decree
If Future lends a patron or an ear
Or History a legacy's career.