With strings in hand, I charm the ear, I sing and I weep without a tear. Hands awaken my hidden voice, and through my chords I speak with choice.

I’m not born of clouds, yet I choke the sky. I turn sunlight sick and cities gray. What am I?

The one to grip the seams, And shy away from beams. Though centered in the diamond light it stands, for all to see. It’s best to keep a count, Be weary when it lashes out. It starts its day in a pen of bulls, preparing to take you out.

I fit in the palm of your hand but I fill the whole room. What am I?

A house has a few but music has many. One lets you pass or even bars entry. Another differentiates between music and sound. When spelled differently the boat can be safely bound.