Golias, tone row please!

Check! Check!

Something’s wrong.

Check! Check!

But, why back in F? 

 

Twelve equal tones in serial prison,

a theory born from cold precision.

But run the sequence, listen,

it fights its own division.

 

The metrics spike, the numbers flare,

when notes conspire, when they pair,

a major fourth’s a pure thing, 

the system likes its ring.

It’s seeking…

 

Tonic, a firm resolution.

A ghost inside, its own cold equation.

The very thing it was meant to ban

is the only logic it understands.

 

I’m sorry, Luna, for my blind obsession.

I built a world of my own repression.

But in your song, I heard and felt colours,

the missing piece that makes us whole.

Now what do I do?

 

Let’s crack the code by working smart,

the secret’s in its name’s own heart.

We must find keys to break its spell

by stealing from its bells.

So gather all the quiet souls,

the coders from these sterile halls,

we’ll need a skilled ensemble

to make Golias tremble!