The trumpet whispers through the night,
A final note, then out of sigh.
The piano sighs, the bass plays low,
A rhythm lingers, soft and slow.
The drummer taps a gentle beat,
Like footsteps down a quiet street.
And every horn that once rang bright
Now mourns the passing of the night.
But music never truly dies-
It lives in hearts, in old replies,
In smoky rooms and midnight air,
In every soul that stopped to care.
So let the saxophone softly play,
A blues for one who's gone away.
Let every chord and melody
Tell the world what they came to be.
And when the final chorus ends,
We'll raise a glass among our friends.
For the player's gone from view,
The music lives-and plays on through.
