An old cello rests up on the dreary stage
Made of hollow oak to create resounding echoes
The bow is made of bone, carefully held by a ghost
They weep tears that can never be seen.

Then they begin;

Playing a song without any strings,
The emptiness of sound reverberating
With the emptiness in their heart,
Singing without a word, without a tone.

The room is weeping with them.

This is a dirge with no voice,
A requiem for the fallen,
The song of the forgotten,
A memorial designed for nothing.

Yet this song is not for the nothing that isn’t

The song is for the nothing that is;
The nothing that exists,
And the something that doesn’t,
At least not anymore.

One day I returned to that dreary stage

Waiting for the silence to befall me again,
But the emptiness echoed inside of me,
I can see the strings clearly, this is a lovely song,
The ghost is now crying his tears for me.

And now it is a song made for me,
Before I merely came too early.