We are the music makers and we are the dreamers of dreams.
-Willie Wonka

Cherish your vision; cherish your ideals; cherish the music that stirs in
your heart. The beauty that forms in your mind. The loveliness that drapes
your purest thoughts. If you remain true to them, your world will at last
be built.
-James Allen

He lifts his bow
And draws it with great show
Across the golden strings of his
Gleaming, polished violin.

The chords ring,
Echoing in the air.
Melodiously they sing,
All in harmony and unison.

In rapid, flowing movements,
The bow weaves beautiful stories
Of long ago, once well known
But now forgotten.

Melody after melody
The violin sweetly croons
It sings of mysterious happenings,
Of thunder, sun, stars and moon.

At times it storms furiously,
Shrieking out sharp, shrill sounds.
At times, it waltzes gracefully,
Tapping out simple yet lyrical airs.

Though lost in the swirl of sounds,
He still plays,
Experiencing icy blizzards,
Radiant sunshine and pattering beads of rain.

From 'Four Seasons' to 'Moonlight Sonata',
He plays on,
Never stopping, never resting,
Only smiling.

And when the bow draws its last,
There is a prolonged hush.
Nobody moves, nobody speaks.
There is only a dramatic pause.

Then, there is suddenly thunderous applause,
Even enthusiastic shouts of 'Encore!'
Some whistle, some stamp their feet.
He sweeps a bow with a great flourish.

And the curtain closes.