He looked at me, eyes blood-shot.
One could tell he'd been through a lot.
I looked at those sad eyes and saw his melody-
a sad one about those who'd made his life a parody.
His bony fingers pulled the strings, strumming away his life
I could see the day he held the corpse of his wife.
Just as the guitar turned into ice by his touch,
he lost her, and missed her very much.
His breath was a steam of coldness,
his frail, shaky voice tried to sing boldness.
He went on to play his cold strings,
even today his melancholy rings
I hear it in my ears.
And after all these weeks, months, and years,
I remember when he left, his cold strings, his warm heart,
and was glad he was now joyful in a place where his gladness had made a start.