The smell of rosin, sticky and sharp.
The smooth notes ring as a bow hits a string.
The sound of chatter and hum of a harp,
As the choir gets ready to sing.
The softly chiming sound of wooden bells.
The steps on the risers creak with the weight.
The steady thrum of the drums always tells,
The beat the director will not hate.
In this crowd sits a small and quiet girl.
A soft and shy smile graces her face.
Her fingers dance as her mind starts to swirl,
And she gives a silent performance.
The girl is not noticed by any eye,
But amongst this crowd, she still wants to try.















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