If there is one thing left after we’re gone,
one small thing that matters,
even an echo in a canyon,
even a faint scent on a breeze,
then we haven’t lived in vain,
have we?
The world is strident,
painful loudness,
a babel of shrieks and disorienting jangle,
inside which that small thing
may be the only music that endures
long enough to seed the chaos
with the nostalgia of order
after its source was silenced.
