The sweeping sounds cascade out of the stage

Bouncing around the room,

Mixing with the cushioned chairs

And the old-people smell.

 

The brass blasts out a baleful melody

While the flutes lightly flutter over top.

The strings add a rich harmony

That the percussion beats time to.

 

Why am I the youngest person here?

 

The music wraps me in its embrace

And I shiver from the comfort.

Fingers gripping the edge of my seat,

Nothing else matters.

 

The piece ends.

The conductor bows.

I stand up and clap with

The rest of the music lovers.

 

Why am I the youngest person here?

 

It may not be the banging drum set

Or the screeching guitars of rock.

 

It isn’t the springy melodies

And catchy vocals of pop

 

But this is music still.

 

Come appreciate the classics!

I welcome the young to enjoy the old!

These people work just as hard

As your rock stars!

 

They tour, they rehearse,

They record, they make CDs.

Why not give them an audience?

If you enjoy music,

 

Why am I the youngest person here?