Luyện nghe bài hát Crux Of The Message

[Adapted from the poem "The Storm" by Alison LR

It starts as a purr, rippling, beckoning,
the evening's baking heat.
It to the side, foot tapping, hop skipping.
Without formation, no of the beat.
And then the mean, heartrending echo.
Low and beguiling, the show.
The resounding, a tightening of air.
As emerge, the wind starts to blow.

He's coming, coming, the crux of the message.
A swordsman, no mercy to spare.
He'll slice and he'll sever with precision.
The his fortune, the dragon - this air.

And run for cover,
know of his venom.
The with which he will mount his attack.
But with a nerve,
and bubbling
be so hasty to hide or turn back.
With a of his whip
the tears cascading.
Great rivers of washing over the land.
In or in pity, in fear or forgiveness.
The thunder is slain, the at hand.

He's coming, he's coming, the of the message.
A swordsman, no mercy to spare.
He'll slice and he'll sever with precision.
The weapon his fortune, the - this air.

And the threatening rumble, a music faded,
a great composition now complete.
The blue heavens now
in whispers, to wait for the encore.
A black sheet.