He looked at me, eyes bloodshot.

One could tell he'd been through a lot.

i looked at those sad eyes and saw his melody-

a sad one about those who'd made his life a parody.

his bony fingers pulled the strings, strumming away his life 

i could see the day he held the corpse of his wife

just as the guitar turned into ice by his touch

he lost her and missed her very much.

his breath was a steam of coldness

his frail, shaky voice tried to sing boldness

he went on to play his cold strings

even today his melancholy rings

i hear it in my ears

after all these weeks, months, years

i remember when he left, his cold strings, his warm heart,

and was glad he was now joyful in a place where his gladness had made a start.