A dark forest clearing with a beacon of light.
Moss creeps over unplucked strings, who ache
for the fingers that caressed it, enticed it to sing.
No more is it a dancer.
Insects scuttle over the heart that wants-
wants to tremor, to vibrate,
as it once did,
for the music, the dance,
that was born within it.
It lies, and it dreams
of the rhythms, the feet that-
that danced to its tune, that drummed
to its melody.
The wild music of its homeland has disappeared-
The tune is dead-
no more to sing
no more to dance
Nothing is left in the wake