Slowly, slowly, drums beat soulfully
echoing, echoing drum beats mourning
slowly, soulfully, echoing in mourning.
Softly moaning flute’s notes wailing
wailing softly, slowly echoing in haunting melody.
In moonlit glade do shadows fall
cast long and solemn amidst trees tall
with limbs outstretched toward muted sky
that hears their pleas — and gives no reply.
Trees sigh. The sky seems not to hear the wind
whose haunting tunes are snatched
by outstretched limbs that seek a tune
that though forlorn, when offered, soar on, skyward bound.
What sound! To melody, mute sky replies
in rage — or is it echoed sighs?
What tirade sky does vent on trees: —
is it the answer to long-raised pleas?
Like silver tresses hanging loose,
the sky’s outpouring changing hues
with every fiery bolt of light,
from heavy limbs that seek the shelter of the night.
And finally, finally, the clamor sinks slowly,
hushing itself and echoing meekly
the steady rhythm of skins pulsating,
seemingly calling, from a distance hailing,
enticing from hidden corners the echoes of drums
that slowly, slowly, beat so mournfully
echoing, echoing, in endless mourning
slowly, soulfully, echoing the mourning
of enamored soul left long to wandering.