It is the music that draws him,
gasping in the dust-filled darkness,
ancient lungs struggling to remember
the art of breathing;

The slow movement of Mozart's
'Eine Kleine Nachtmusik'
seeping through cracked mortar
and granite walls.

The first violin spins out the
long lines of haunting melody -
beyond, the dissonant clamour
of voices raised, yet

So softened by the distance,
the intervention of clay and stone,
as to seem almost an afterecho,
another implicit layer of resonance.

The slow even steadiness dissolves
into a new, more impassioned
minor melody, startling him
from slumber's remaining grasp.

The dark, dionysan aspects
of the Mozart thunder
in his mind, echoing - like
the whine of distant whalesong;

And with the sweet strains, images:
a torrent of visions, like flashes - 
the precious pictures of his life
ripped from his mind's deep recesses.

Mozart's notes sing, calling to him
and the memories come unbidden,
crashing over him in waves...
He can hear her laughter then - 

She is dancing in the garden,
laughing, as she whirls amongst
fragrant blooms nodding in the sun,
the white of her gown billowing...

Then she is gone, her image fading,
her lilting laugh dying away
until all that remains is the
lingering scent of lilacs.

A sudden strangled cry shatters 
the grave-quiet void
that surrounds him - 
the music having ended.

His mind rebels at the sound, 
cringing as if afraid - 
not recognizing his own voice
after centuries of silence.