When a trumpeter dies
My fingers become mouth pieces
When I play the piano the singer depends on me
I cannot allow the trio to be a duet
When a trumpeter dies
his breath remains
To blow the talk of time
For centuries to come
When a trumpeter dies
His life of works ascends to a place in the mind called rememberance
Give me a swing
Was the trumpeter's last request.
Blessedm (South Africa)
Sibusiso Hlatshwayo
©blessedm
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