By Shem Onderi
They rhyme without a voice,
Though they exist for one purpose — to make sound.
Each is crafted differently, held together by its own bolts and quirks.
Some must be gripped tightly to sing,
Others must be struck with force just to speak.
There are those that lie flat for balance,
And others that hang from the shoulders like loyal companions.
Some are forged from steel,
Others demand the sacrifice of hide so they can breathe.
Some rely on taut strings, stretched precisely for harmony.
All of them come alive only when handled with care,
In the right place, at the right time.
Instrumentals often stand in for human voices,
Quietly taking their place on the frontline of music.
They imitate us — our rhythm, our emotion.
Yet they falter too: they break, fall silent, or hang useless on a hook.
If only they could speak,
They might tell us their wishes,
Or complain about the long hours we make them labour.
Sometimes they are abandoned to rust,
Replaced when all they needed was a little oil,
A tightening of screws, a moment of attention.
In the end, every sound they give is born from a human touch.
Perhaps instrumentals are a little human, after all.