The Composer

For he is the great
Translator of our lives -
The notes he has
Written down  are
Interpreted as human
Beings living breathing filling
Days, and all his plan
On  paper goes its own ways
Not quite matching the tune.
Does  he sigh, I wonder, at
Such  ruin of perfection he
Envisaged when he
Wrote  the notes? His sight
And  pen are separated from
Our airwaves  - the place here
His music plays. Does he
Attend, the author, the
Musician of our days? And
Do  we offend him, with our
Off-key ways,  our refusals
To  tow the line and
Let the notes sound
Bright and true -
Be  the concert he
Wrote  us for
And  all our instruments
Languishing in our hands
Like we forgot the music
That  we heard and
Brought  down  discord on our heads
Instead of concord he
Once  raised.
Our poor  music
Flings itself and fails,
Our  notes must strain his ears -
This common   man
With  all his failed fanfares.

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