You cannot hear it, but it is there, silent accordion in air,
Her feet make passes on tepid ground, as she recalls its doleful sound.
The fog disperses numbing glare, as the whips crack and the tight skins tear.
There, by the edge; where the black chars abound, she recalls its doleful sound.
There was no evidence of a trumpet’s shriek; no melody, soft…meek,
Yet on her face there was such fierce pall, upon her death, as is for all.
The impact distorted- her frame did tweak, from each wound must come a leak.
Twas but no fanfare’s cry, at The Fall, upon her death, as is for all.
