THE CARAVANERS

 I sat by the piano

My hands skimmed over the keys

The song that struck the keys

Was written by the chords of my heart

It was filled with love 

It was filled with song

But when there came another line

Another put her fingers on mine

I fell to a room where the pianos were lined

All of the players led by the one behind

Chaining fingers, wrecking the lines

Stealing their songs, crushing their cries,

I said , "Why O Why?"

"This is not my song"

"These are not my lines"

She said

"This was how it was

And how it will always remain."

I ran down the undergrowth

But the vines creeped

And bound me.

I fell but I rose

Like ashes out of snow

Like a blade from the sand

Like a peak from the woods

But now, but now

I labour on,

This circle path of Caravaners

Even, slow, prosaic

If I succumb they jeer

If I run they walk over

If I find they take

And load it on their little carts

To be taken by the Caravaner's way

I cannot swim in the storm.

I cannot tangle in the undergrowth.

I cannot rise and fall.

In my rise is my fall

In my fall is my rise

In this path of Caravaners.

The reaper is dead in this road

He waits for me by the slopes on the mountainside.

Extraordinary are we,

Beneath the hourglass,

Struck with shards

As times pass.

Time moves on for us alone,

For the others see nowhere

But front.

How could I blaze in the dark?

How could I love without a song?

Help me 

Did you forget my songs?