… and thou could still heareth thy melody on the rocks—

violins were the biography of your life;

& you painted death in shades of white and black;

never running off the line or missing a note;

you persevered until the angels wept

--

colours were a children’s innocence;

lilies never swayed to your songs;

you, the water-bearer, suffered of thirst;

your ashes are still here

--

& so blood stains the tears of the cold;

I still remember the echoes of the words you lost;

your paintbrushes drip red since you left;

and I can’t find your turpentine...