The Lyre

Cold. Unstrung. She lies, locked behind the glass.

Silenced now, a mere echo of her past.

Like a pearl discarded on the dark sea floor,

Forgotten, tarnished. She gives no joy anymore.

Both, in a transparent cage encased,

Their power and beauty go to waste.

Our worlds are two; the glass divides.

And in that sterile space Time hides.

A messenger from languished lands,

Captured, now alone she stands.

Her unsung message squandered without sound.

“And Time that gave doth now his gift confound”.

Matter remains, though spirit lost.

We have her body, but at what cost?

She once was loved and lulled lost lovers through the night.

She sang a thousand tales and gave such great delight.

Now all she gives is silence, muted in her box.

And her silence is a mourning song, though she remains unstrung.

And the echoes in the emptiness are the songs that went unsung.