In the moments
where there are
breaks
in the mist,
you can still see them swinging
in the belfry with childish abandon,
and in our better days
knelled their notes like such, with innocent glee.
But now, in the
ever-darkening mist,
like abandoned children,
they were brought to silence,
and in the shrouded darkness,
they will also grow still.
No music,
not even muffled by the cursed vapors,
to continue their dance of song.
And all our joyless tears
float from our eyes to mingle
in the shadowed mist,
giving the lie
to happiness.
BlackQuill 