The sickly strains of Hell,
A woman's dying screams,
Like a wounded night-bird's song.
And I think of her
And I think of him
With a knife at her bosom,
And the terror in her eyes
As she anticipates
The night he brings,
And the blood pouring
From her naked chest in waves of fire
Which stain the pavement
And anoint his hands.
And I remember again those youthful days
When I had a home.
I remember the music they played at Mother's funeral,
Dark, solemn organ music
As she lay there pale and I wept.
And I remember another lady, much younger,
Who loved me when I had a home, away from these streets.
Ah, what death is here on these streets!
Death of love, death of hope, death of laughter.
But the music continues, this funeral ballet,
And it's discord suits me now.
So sing, wounded dove,
The arrow in your breast.
As the strangled flute
In a demon symphony,
Sing, I bid you, sing!
And the wind shall carry your song,
Yes the wind shall carry our song
To the farthest shores of night
Where all may learn its tune.
George Chadderdon © 1994