‘Soft, For the Music Dies.’
Soft, for the music dies within this room
Where once the bridge that Heaven sings
to man, returning him to grace,
is an empty space.
Soft, for music never silenced never can return
and we the living must, its passing mourn
sighing in the gloom.
Soft, still within the silence lives the love
he crafted here upon an earthly stave;
the song, moon slivered nights and sunscaped days.
Soft, threading memory stakes the muted claim
which we, the living, tearful, bear the blame
denial of our grave.
Soft. Dying music’s timbre strikes the note
discordant; chaos bring the age of truth
to him; returns all harmony and places times innocence.
Soft, here lies the living ache, seek the dawn of melodies.
Each day his love reborn sustains undying hopes.
Whitney Sweet 