Luyện nghe bài hát Crux Of The Message

[Adapted from the poem "The Storm" by LR Davies]

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 comes the mean, echo.
Low and beguiling, the show.
The murmur resounding, a of air.
As emerge, the wind starts to blow.

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

And run for cover,
know of his venom.
The fury with 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 truth 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 silvery swordsman, no to spare.
He'll slice and he'll sever sparkling precision.
The weapon his fortune, the - this air.

And the rumble, a music soon faded,
a great composition now complete.
The mottle blue now
in whispers, to wait for the encore.
A cloudless sheet.