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A long forgotten harp rests on a board
that hasn`t seen much cleaning, lot`s of dust
stain 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 a bier and hummed his tune,
that sounded cheerful, stayed to death immune.
Never sigh for a better world it`s already composed, played and told

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