When the wind is still and the moon is high,

A mournful tune can be heard in the night.

The sad melody flows through the air,

On the flute she plays to her lost love.

No greater devotion or stronger bond,

Than that shared by the two in life.

Strengthened by the music they loved,

And the words of songs sang to one another.

Smiles disappear, the joys turn to sorrow,

Tragedy comes to take it's place.

Now each night when the wind is still,

When the moon hangs high in the sky.

She plays to him on her golden flute,

The mournful Song of the Dead.

© Randall Beers

November 2nd 1999