In halls adorned with notes of yore,
The violin’s cry, the cello’s roar,
A melody both soft and grand,
Composed by unseen, guiding hand.

Each note a whisper from the past,
In harmonies that ever last,
The piano’s keys, a gentle touch,
Speak of love and pain and such.

The maestro leads with silent grace,
His baton dances, finds its place,
As strings and brass in chorus meet,
To make the symphony complete.

The echoes linger, fade away,
Yet in the heart, they always stay,
A timeless bond, a sacred tie,
With classical music, we fly high.