Perhaps the closest we get to music:

Uncluttered, pure, free from excess.

Their simplicity can be deceptive;

In reality, nothing is simple.

Everything, however, is deceptive.

Maybe that’s the way it is meant to be;

We must be deceived by their deception,

Woven by passion, not by intention.

 

These pieces are not innocent, of course;

Beyond a lilting theme of hope and joy,

Both tragedy and anger soon insist.

The ricochet and swelling of the notes

Commands our human life to ply its trade;

All shades from light to darkness are displayed.