You think of a city, perfectly deserted,
and when someone asks what music
plays in their graveyard, a place
where nothing else exists, only bones
and in all his wisdom, God tells you
they are your motherís and fatherís bones
and their parentsí bones before them.
If you could pick any music to play
there, you would pick a violin concerto
and let it play until their eyes
no longer haunt you and their bones
are quiet and await with patience
all the splintered and crushed
bones of their children.