My chair groans lightly as
the window does, for I
am like clouds that tumble and fall,
like a little child that has
Fallen, oh has fallen. For
the wind has knocked her flat.
Sweet music, however, she breathes deep,
and it serves as her lariat.
To bring her back to do
what she has never had to,
to lift her up by her scruff
so she can learn to be tough.
My Music will return
when he has come back home,
and the wind will stop its howling,
and music shall take its turn.
But the clouds don’t part for
music, and my chair will
creak under the same weight,
and as for the windowsill,
the Storm will press against it,
but won’t break through, not yet.
For your echo still resides here,
so I still feel you near.
Music still echoes throughout
this house, but the radio
now has gone, leaving behind
and empty silence, the memories
Of a Song.