an octave

in snows of winter far and gone
we play the diving music
and pray and hope that the other ones
have faired much better than we must think

for memories have faded
and long do we play
until our fingers first are sore
and then bleed out the reprobation and fear that we must forget.

and do i rejoice in a simple lonely life?
do i smile at those
whose lives i have seen taken
for the sole thought of a happy ending?

unless i am much mistaken,
the family is gone,
the good men dead,
and yet the music plays
on
on
on.