Scott: Memory

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.