Pack away the sombre guitars; love ne’er plays to the darkness. Orchestras are disbanded and fall, pianos lose black keys and white to the silence of eternity. White wind is the only cruel sound, brushing off solemn tears, ethereal. Storms of dove’s feathers, tempests of white, break shores, like waves of apocalypse, all warm hope, dying. Love is embraced by the decrepit as rose-tinted coffins are buried and sink, forgotten, into endless oceans. This serenity shall

What goes to man for he has lost the world The beaches glass and the table rock The gears of clocks stand still on sand Obliterated by waves of time The splendor has been drained and the bird has lost flight Flayed upon the scalpel of logic In what truth is there still hope What corner unreached Our homes smothered in the thirst for knowledge Those shelves filled That beach washed, shining That table, braced by those great pillars made from the souls used to build them H