Sona, Maven of Strings
Come forth, my good friends, let the concert begin.
All those who love music I consider my kin.
The etwahl of mine is a gift from the gods.
I bless or condemn when I play the right chords.
***
The ones who abandon poor people in need,
Who desperate prayers prefer not to heed
Will suffer for holding their terrible views.
I'll safeguard our world from such horrid abuse.
The wicked will never escape my crusade.
The hymns I perform are as sharp as a blade.
They flee from my tunes but for them it's too late.
The song of celerity heralds their fate.
Their legs turn to stone and their faces are pale.
My music then hits like the mightiest gale.
Soon air becomes still for crescendo is nigh.
It drives them insane and they dance while they die.
In contrast, for people who know how to care,
My melodies are like a breath of fresh air.
They hearten the brave and give strength to the poor.
Deep wounds they can heal and godspeed they ensure.
The fanfare ascends; you will sing in delight.
The symphony of justice is shown here tonight.
With consummate tempo I'll play it for you.
My grand masterpiece your pure souls will renew.
