A long forgotten harp rests on a board
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that has not seen too much of cleaning: Dust
stains laurel leaves tied tight around one chord
too stubborn still to snap, succumb to rust.
Arthritic fingers creak in pain , but lust
to play again his one and only song
that won him accolades which did not last
more than a blink, but that was pure and strong.
Soon afterwards his music played him wrong
he could not find again the rolling crest
and then they came to carry him along
towards an unmarked grave, his final rest.
They put him on his bier and hummed a tune
that sounded cheerful, was to death immune.