Exerpts.

The sound of music.......

The sound of music gives us so much emotionsand that plays a melody deep in our heart greatlyAll the sound on the earth are like musicand the music brings love and enjoyment to our lifeMusic expresses universal language of the worldand brings people together where ever they liveThe music is the best gift of God to all of uswhere its fills our soul with peace and mind with creativityEvery music has its own rhythmand it's creates a great sound of music Music in the mountain brings peace in our heartand music in the ocean fills our soul with loveWhen I hear the sound of musicthen I begin to write a song as a soul of musicIf you don't love the sound of music then your soul will be unsungBecause music can put life in to a dead man

Ravi Sathasivam / Sri Lanka






Music, In A Foreign Language by Andrew Crumey
In a cafe, once more I heardYour voice - those sparse and frugal notes.Do they not say that you spoke your native GreekWith an English accent?Briefest of visions: eyes meet across the cafe;A man of about my age - eyelids heavy,Perhaps from recent pleasures.I begin the most innocent of conversations.Again I see that image;Ancient delight of fleshAgainst guiltless flesh.Sweeter still, in its remembering.Most innocent of conversations: once more, I am mistaken.He leaves; the moment lost - and to foregoThe squalor of this place, I read again your lines; those sparse and frugal notes.In a taverna, you found beauty, long ago.And when you draw, with your slim, swift penThe image of that memory - time's patient hostage;Then how can I forget him, that boy whom you could not forget,Or that music, in a foreign language?

Andrew Crumey, USA



No More Music by Robert William Service
The Porch was blazoned with geranium bloom;Myrtle and jasmine meadows lit the lea;With rose and violet the vale's perfumeLanguished to where the hyacinthine seaDreamed tenderly . . . "And I must go," said he.He spoke in that dim, ghostly voice of his:"I was a singer; then the Was . . . and GAS."(I had to lean to him, no word to miss.)"We bought this little café nigh to Grasse;With sun and flowers my last few days will pass."And music too. I have my mandolin:Say! Maybe you can strum on your guitar . . .Come on - we two will make melodious din,While Madame sings to us behind the bar:You'll see how sweet Italian folk-songs are."So he would play and I would thrum the while;I used to there every lovely day;His wife would listen with a sunny smile,And when I left: "Please come again," she'd say."He seems quite sad when you have one away."Alas! I had to leave without good-bye,And lived in sooty cities for ayear.Oh, how my heart ached for that happy sky!Then, then one day my café I drew near -God! it was strange how I was gripped with fear.So still it was; I saw no mandolin,No gay guitar with ribbons blue and red;Then all in black, stone-faced the wife came in . . .I did not ask; I looked, she shook her head:"La musique est fini," was all she said.