He heard a poem in the wind, and shaped it into sound,
With trembling hands and faithful heart, he let the notes abound.
But Goethe turned a bitter ear, and shut the window tight,
Still Schubert wrote through silent tears, each morning, noon, and night.
They said his work was not enough, dismissed it with a frown,
Yet songs poured out like silver rain, while others cast him down.
With every “No,” he planted hope, with every slight, a song,
And quietly the world began to hum and sing along.
A thousand dreams he set to flight, though few would clap or cheer,
But some friends heard, and held them close, and let the world draw near.
He wrote not for the loud applause, but for the truth inside—
And from that truth, the music grew and never had to hide.
So when you feel your voice is small, or no one seems to care,
Remember how one quiet soul still filled the open air.
A hundred hearts may turn away, but one might understand—
So sing your song, though no one hears… the echo will expand.