“I’m not freestyling, I’m too old,” began Miranda. “I wrote you a sonnet instead.”
“My wife’s the reason anything gets done.
She nudges me towards promise by degrees,
She is a perfect symphony of one.
Our son is her most beautiful reprise.
We chase the melodies that seem to find us
Until they’re finished songs and start to play
When senseless acts of tragedy
Remind us that nothing here is promised, not one day,
The show is proof that history remembers;
We live through times when hate and fear seems stronger,
We rise and fall and light from dying embers,
Remembrances that hope and love last longer.
And love is love, is love, is love, is love, is love, is love, is love, is love.
Cannot be killed or swept aside.
I sing Vanessa’s symphony, Eliza tells her story.
Now fill the world with music, love and pride.”
“Thank you so much for this,” he concluded.