A Shrouded Song

An incantation waits from me, not melodies of long ago, and not love songs in afterglow. I remember these and more. I still recall the measures past the metronome could not outlast, the rustic note of hill and grove, the tune of Sunday afternoon, the ballad of an amber moon. I know I can't go home again. My river flows with harmony. Its final verse will set me free. I gaze on stars as darkness falls. I know the silence holds for me a rhapsody of minor key. Though all of life is interlude, the future hides at evening time, a shrouded song, a pantomime.