It was a simple melody. Beautiful. Melancholy.
She played the flute, as we rested on the trail.
The world was gone, but not all had yet burned.
A line of notes. They moved me. They chilled me.
Such a thing could show what people could make.
What glories that rivaled the stars in our broken hearts.
Northern forests, probably over the border, still green.
The world was gone because our ugliness wins in the end.
I watched her play that tune, and wept for what could have been.