Music, the ancient art,
More developed than any other form.
Flows from one life to the next.
Crosses the soul of the originator,
Into the soul of the receiver.
If the music is true, the receiver qualified,
Both become transcendent.
Both brush back the veil to reveal a revered prize.

Sometimes people are not ready for it.
Confused, the unqualified man asks, “Why venerate this?”
An infinitely tall, concrete barrier stands before him.
For hours the man feverishly searches,
For a way around the great wall, trying to find the revered prize.
He tries to dig under the wall, but is met by more concrete.
He walks for miles one way, then the other,
But each way, the only prize he finds is more concrete.
He looks up and sees no answers, so he gives up his search.
He turns away and brushes back the veil again, wondering how the prize is seen.
This time his monotonous world stands before him.
He wasn’t ready for the prize, so he happily steps back into his monotony.
He never saw it anyhow.

Sometimes people are ready, they see their world’s monotony.
Elated, the qualified man asks, “Where do I start?”
A universe lies before him.
He does not see it, does not smell it or hear it.
He simply feels it, it is there and he knows it so.
It is music.
This is the revered prize so many covet, but so few are ready for.
For years the man simply wonders its depths.
He finds many friendly companions along the way,
Reality and truth among them.

People try to enter his world to give him advice,
To tell him it is time to come back to the monotony.
They brush back the veil and are met with the infinite concrete wall.
So they yell, they yell their pleas as loud as they can.
The man hears the cries but knows they are misleading.
He simply says, “No thanks, my soul has grown accustomed to the prize.”

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