There he was captured,
This man of music.
Now a prisoner of war
But music was within his soul,
On scraps of paper he wrote
He wrote his music.
Music that would haunt my mind.
Music for the only instruments that were there,
There in that prisoner of war camp.
So he wrote for piano, clarinet, violin and ‘cello.
Wrote a piece that moves me.
The music was finished
And there in the camp, in the rain,
The four musicians played,
Played the music on their decrepit instruments.
The prisoners and guards watched,
Watched with rapt attention,
And rapt comprehension,
As the end of time sank into their souls.
And still sinks into mine.
Such a meaningful piece of music
That moves me every time.
Every time I hear it,
And every time I hear it
It enters my soul.