LINES OF THOUGHT © 2013

The limit of instruments lies with their interpreters,

For wood, metal, and sound,

Are merely means, discreet voices,

That in human hands become a gift.

A violin, alone, is guarded silence,

A guitar, only tense strings,

But when the soul touches them gently,

They transform into immense melodies.

It is the interpreter who gives life to what is matter,

Who makes vibrate what is only potential,

In the gesture, the passion, in their ethereal art,

The limit dissolves, becoming timeless.

For it is not the instrument that defines the sound,

But the one who plays it with heart and faith,

And it is in the human, in their gift,

That music finds its why.

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