For the guitar piece no.2, “Spring Dance.”
What if Death got lost in the middle of the crowd?
That night, music was pleasantly loud.
So many feet stomped to the beats in the middle of the town.
Under the lamppost, Death in his grimness, stood
holding a sickle, peering under the dark cloak, looking a little lost.
What if the sweet village girl approached Death,
whispering shyly, “Would you like to dance?”
Her voice a nightingale, her scent smelled like love,
that addictive drug. Who could refuse her? Who would?
She led the way, swaying her body full of grace.
The boys and girls joined in, stepping back and forth.
The air was too crisp to let the feet drag.
Not with the faces of tulips smiling above the ground,
the young ferns clapping under the trees,
clean air and spring rain in the clouds.
No one asked why Death got lost in this town
or why he became forgetful.
Not when the harvest was plenty and no life was stolen.
So many feet danced that night, the wildness
echoed through the town. People wouldn’t stop
singing the same song. Even Death whistled a tune,
only he sang it backwards, unfurling each note,
all the way to the beginning
where Time stood tall.