At Curium, we sat upon our ancient seat
And gazed across a shore
That bore the Empire's greats.
The setting sun chased shadows across the half-moon
As aged Urana
Wafted our orchestra.

The Festive Overture began and as the notes
Drifted amongst the crowd,
A sheet of music rose
And somersaulted to the peals of the tuba,
Then gently rocked to lie
Still, as the oboe played.

A sudden surge of wind blasted through instruments
And air to reconvene
The paper's gambol; rising,
Then banking a camber, pitching a roll, dancing
To entranced eyes before
Its notes were lost once more.