The wind, <br />Strums the strings, <br />Of the trees, <br />Tortured, distorted harps, <br />Their notes float gently into the mute night. <br />No sound, no sound... <br /> <br />No children's gentle breathings, <br />No tender lovers' murmurings, <br />No men and women talking, laughing... <br />Only the bowed trees <br />As the invisible Harpist <br />Plucks the dark, bent branches, <br /> <br />The notes sob in the blackness, <br />And tremble in the silence, <br />Their moans echo in the shivering stars. <br />Wind cupped, weeping, bitter <br />Notes, that ask, why does evil stand tall, <br />Why do the good lay fallen...<br /><br />Mary Naylor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dirge-for-darfur/
