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Darkness envelopes the plain
Moving stealthily among
Unsuspecting rows of houses
Filled with unbroken sleep

The wind, afraid to move
Lest it were to awaken
Even one from the grasp
Of this wretched sleep.

And yet one feels a cry
A long lost song of hope
Silent, yet unnerving
It strives to be heard.

The long hands of despair
Seek to embrace them
The singers of these songs
That reek of loss, irreplaceable.

Tired hands work on
The day progresses and yet
An end is not in sight
The sun sets, they work on.

They feast upon the dregs
Dropped from the heavens
That are found on earth
To subdue their hunger.

Fate, they say is to blame
For their woeful condition
For their pathetic existence
Fate and fate alone.

Nature herself anguishes
Over the painful loss
Of her many children
To the unruly hands of men.

A carcass floats down the river
Its stench numbs the senses
Is it a man or an animal?
No one knows and no one cares.

The song of a newborn
Muffled by the gruff hand
That binds and drags it
Across the river of death.

The song of hunger
Slowly rumbling through
Like thunder on earth
Silenced only by tired sleep.

The song of sorrow
From deep within the hearts
Of people young and old
Softened only by time.

These are but three
Of the many songs that are
Heard only by deep silence
And no one else.

The gods above in heaven
And the gods below
Carry on with their mirth
Not hearing these songs.

Songs of silence, of blood
Songs of death, of decay
Songs of yesterday
Songs devoid of joy.

They are everywhere and yet
They are heard by none
They are sublime and merge
Into the void that is life.

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