No measure of thoughts,
a trail of progress so vast,
there is no fathom to its end.
The masters of time,
knew no bounds.
With the crashes of mallets,
the ballet of brushes,
the dances of fingers across the ivory plains.
Comes the bringing,
of the seeds of immortality.
The chapels of religion,
the halls of romantic haven,
and the houses of rhythm and rhyme.
Behold the homes,
of their memories.
Where the sands of time run quickly,
the masters of time had no haste.
Some saw darkness, some heard nothing
many felt the harshness of reality,
yet they left behind their bit.
Now comes our age and our time,
where the masters still live on.
What will I leave when i pass?
When do I start?
Where i leave behind my inch.
