I am reminded of moutain rise and glacial fall. Of seasons and centuries and time beyond all counting. How this stone came to be a lying at my feet.
Every stone has a story that you haven’t time to know. But you may remember, being there, when it first began to snow.
His own voice was nothing but croaks and gargles. All gravel and snot. But he had a peculiar talent, a particular gift where he could cover the songs of others note for note. Every trill and flourish in perfect pitch.
He became quite a sensation after the great collapse and filled the grandest theaters in the greatest cities throughout the world.
Eventually though the the crowds began to thin and the venues got smaller and small still, until this night the curtain rose to an audience of one and he knew, this was his last show.
He held nothing back that night. He gave it all. It was his best show ever, performed for one lonely old man seated center, second row back who never stirred, whose shirt was soaked with tears.
When the final curtain finally fell he remembered every show. The crowds, the applause, the adulation, the ovations. And as he stepped into the slient dawn, he knew he would remember this show most. The last show, for the last man, who still remembered, there where songbirds once.