the quiet muse

no drum
or flute, no violin
or guitar,
no piano being struck,
no harpsichord
no lyre,
or tuba,
no music could be heard
at all.
not a single note is sung,
not one word
of a poem
recited, it's
just the wind
whistling
through stones,
tilted and etched
along
the treeless park.
the names
of the dead say nothing.
an entry number
an exit.
but once, yes once
there was music
in all
of them.