Human feelings are difficult to predict.
If you don’t like this, I’ll stop writing music.
I’m a coward. I succumbed to jealousy and now it eats my heart.
Springtime is upon us. The birds celebrate her return with festive song, and murmuring streams are softly caressed by the breezes. Thunderstorms, those heralds of Spring, roar, casting their dark mantle over heaven, Then they die away to silence, and the birds take up their charming songs once more.
There are no words, it’s only music there.