Where are the juke-boxes?
Where are the simpletons in
the plastic hats, waving their arms
and singing folk tunes while
carrying backpacks of rocks and
burning the land in their wake?
I saw a lad not long ago,
he sat by the fire in Tomble-Toe.
He drank a glass in one hand-right,
and strung his soul with eyes of light,
he filled the room with music fatly,
while the world outside burned luminescently.
He�s a bard yes, of that terrible time,
one of the pack, they said, who roamed
the land with string in hand and voice
of silk, who could capture your soul with
just one note, and wait until the world outside,
became as ash of a dark, dark day.
They pass, as they always have, but
their shadows turn to figures, and those
figures taken upon the earth, gathering up
within the ash and taking form, to play
the lyre once again, the music of the earth.