One blank musician stands
With the others close at hand
In articulate silence forever
Fingers at the ready
Always about to begin
Or as if the music has just ended
And they freeze in place
The last note enveloping them still
As if what they play enchants them
And whatever the music wants
They have decided to become
That cello of white going yellow
Advancing some theme at the edges
Its leit-motif of green
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