Their great songs are all set in minor.
About their broken instruments
you cannot write. Or about
their empty green valleys
good for thousands of sheep
impassable because of landmines
that nobody will ever dig up
or about their burrows, half villages,
their smithereens and their holes.
Their great songs are all set in minor.
You know them. There lies your pen.
Again you have the heart not to touch it
to leave the evening the evening.
