We stretched our skins over the rims;
Oh, how we beat ourselves to death
The sound decays, spread too thin to resonate
If we don’t fold the wrinkles show
Each trepid movement, an intrusion onto sacred soil
Now vacant from a welcome overstayed
Our refuge fades away
Burned out in verse
Does it still carry worth?
How long can it last when each note hurts?
These hands still play but
Who knew that would shake this way?
Will these tired strings still sing if we asked?
And what would they say?
Would they convey fears of echoes in distant halls
Where “forever” and “together”
Have a meaning all their own?