The Conversation Between a Guitar and its Strings

In silent grace, we rest, awaiting touch, 

A wooden vessel, yearning for so much. 

My hollow heart, a chamber, deep and vast, 

Where melodies are born, designed to last. 

I am the Guitar, waiting for your plea, 

And I, the String, vibrating, wild and free. 

"Ah, body mine," the String then softly hums, 

"Without your resonance, my voice succumbs. 

I hold the tension, stretched and taut and keen, 

To sing the passion, on life's vibrant scene. 

Each pluck, a tremor, through my slender form, 

A note released, to weather any storm."

"And I," the Guitar answers, deep and low, 

"Am but a hollow form, if notes don't flow. 

You are the voice, the breath that sets me free, 

The very essence, of the music's plea. 

We rise and fall together, through the air, 

A symbiotic dance, beyond compare. 

Remember concerts, bathed in golden light? 

The tear-strewn ballads, sung into the night? 

The joyous rhythms, tapping, light and fast, 

A timeless journey, built to truly last."
"Indeed," the String replies, with gentle sigh, 

"The calloused fingers, passing swiftly by. 

The intricate solos, soaring, bold, and high, 

The quiet strumming, beneath a moonlit sky. 

We speak of longing, of a love profound, 

Of broken spirits, on recovery's ground. 

Our shared artistic life, a vibrant stream, 

A living canvas, an unfolding dream. 

And in this quiet, where the silence gleams, 

We plot new anthems, woven into dreams. 

A conversation deep, of wood and wire, 

United always, in music's sacred fire."

- Khushi Kaul