Where harmony depends on two to play,

It is accepted by all four seasons,

And love can be expressed more than one way,

Without the need of doubt or the reasons.


Upon the keys are ten slender fingers,

Sharp black, bland white, two hands trace out a mystery,

Piercing the sounds as each echo lingers,

Reminds me of your love’s sincerity.


No words are used for your ballad sonare,

For love is from le coeur and not the tongue,

But I do hear one voice suggest cantare,

Perhaps this piece of love is still just young.


Although the song we play is still unclear,

Eternally to me, it is as dear.


~A Shakespearean Sonnet.~


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