Brianna Goodman

The music came to morendo: dead.

Rubble muffled the unique note of each voice, as dust covered and turned white to red.

It was a graveyard of hope

Where there were once notes, now there lie permanent rests.

Rubble drowned them and there it was: silence.

Silence from the world: which made it deadly.

No help: no pedal to make the note play steady. 

There is no battle that is ever won,

at the expense of a childless mother and a motherless son.

There is no right when the hearts stop beating,

And the lungs stop breathing.

When is war ever good?

And how is there a winning side? 

When all that has happened was death along the ride.

It's a complex thing that can never be understood.

So green grows over the stones of the perished people, as the silence amasses and there are no longer feet to pedal and make the notes last.

In a world where notes can always play,

Why is it we stay silent and don't chase morendo away?