He stands before the silent symphony,
Conducting soundless music with great zeal;
And though he doesn't hear the harmony,
He still remembers how each note should feel.
The cellos, rich and dark as chocolate cake,
The moonlit passion of the contrabass,
The horns, like sun upon a silver lake,
The flutes, like summer wind upon his face.
The violins are sharp as copper wire,
But lush and smooth as velvet's soft caress.
At last, he feels the voices of the choir:
The glowing warmth of joy and happiness.
And then the deaf composer turns around
And weeps to see applause devoid of sound.