Of The Silent Symphony Twice ten and six its pieces fall, Grand landscapes paint, blind portraits draw. Grayscale in form this puzzle takes, No jagged edges ‘round its trace. Great mountain tops cry not aloud, Its passion bears no heart to pound. Fair lips be carved, but not of clay. In earnest feel dry ocean’s spray. The tales of kings made known to those, Who shield its head when strong wind blows. With cries fall’n sharp on silent ears, That bread of life, its presence rears. Escape beneath its tender breast, And there find long sought-after rest, From perils born not of that sphere, Where pen and ink make vision clear. Thus armed with purposeful resolve, This world – create. That world - dissolve. Forge trees of green with heaven’s hue. Make skies of bold and boisterous blue. To each keen eye its depths resound, Though written phrase produce no sound.