Luyện nghe bài hát Crux Of The Message

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

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

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

And run for cover,
know of his venom.
The fury with which he mount his attack.
But with a nerve,
and curiosity
Won't be so hasty to hide or back.
With a crack of his
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, coming, the crux of the message.
A swordsman, no mercy to spare.
slice and he'll sever with sparkling precision.
The weapon his fortune, the - this air.

And the threatening rumble, a soon faded,
a composition now rendered complete.
The blue heavens now
in whispers, to wait for the encore.
A cloudless sheet.