There is a haze
of retreating battles and war-cries
in the quietly thrumming sky,
as if the harps that once played
at the height of victory
and at mournful burials
were left unattended,
the rusted strings
gently caressed by Boreas.
Elsewhere,
tucked in corners where blood
could not reach,
a little girl dreams of castles
and a calming melody
played by a dark-haired man
with purple wings and cold eyes
on a harp.
Chaos of Life 