Aghast, late in the even, aseat alone in shadow,
I brood alone in silence, with hours till the morrow.
And in my hands I hold a dead, antique victrola,
Found next to a menorah I’ve never known to cast its glow:
Treasures of the attic milieu, cherished friends I long to know.
I greet them kind, and make it so.
I set down the music box before me, wipe its dust away,
Regretting as I touch it, certain it will never play
The arias and joyous tunes that its cone would call and croon
To dancers in the light of moon, children in the light of day—
Specters that shall n’er again find that sun’s sweet golden rays,
The moonlight also cast away.
But still I grasp the rusted crank, and turn with all my might,
Forcing the old victrola’s gears their verdigris to fight.
At first, they will not turn a bit, but then finally submit,
And now I sit and stare at it, seized by uninvited fright,
Swallowing my newfound dread, wishing that it were not night,
Wondering how to take my flight.
Then, from the ancient gramophone, emits a quiet euphony,
That languidly becomes a truly eerie harmony
Of strings and drums and horns, whose descants cry forlorn,
Of woodwind whistles torn—a pleading strident melody,
A philharmonic of the lost, preparing for a symphony;
An awful, baneful symphony.
The volume swells within my ears, What does it mean? I wish to know.
Who is the wicked parent of this hymn of guilty sorrow?
So, thus determined, I resign to discover its design.
Yes, its purpose I’ll define, I’ll hunt and find the source of woe!
And then I saw the culprit, a conductor’s stick in tow;
He introduced himself as Maestro…
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Submission Name: From Symphony of the Wolf
