Sometimes he hears it, in waking dreams —
the silver piping of the flute,
the singing cry of the deep river,
the footsteps of children in the street.

Fifty years without a word or note
He fills his home with books, carvings,
small bones pulled from the river.
He feeds the rats the finest cheese.

The river pounds its quiet song.
The crows call into the shadowed streets.
Beneath the cold and silent moon,
he leans against his crutch, and lives.