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Like a fine fragile tone of a piano
– as the wind carries the essence of
mahogany, pine and cedar through the air;
a veil of mist to the old, dark and unknown
drifts away by the slow breath of time

And as the fragile tone vibrates in the sphere
voices of the past invites into the shadows
where spirits linger before they fly
waiting to tell their story
and to show over and over- how they die

The tone fades out and the mist reappear
But the embrace and echo is still in the air
Cause those who see no flowers in May
whispers through the golden meadows;
we are still here – we who once were

© Sirenia 2012

Photo © Stelios