It was left out of its case.
Last time, it was playing Mozart.
Its keys are no longer bright.
The mouthpiece is roughened from use.

It once belonged to a small, shy boy
Who only spoke through his flute.
He wrote poems and cultivated plants.
He was dreamy, but brave.

Heroic, even. He was ready to face
The guns, to be shot through the heart.
He was ready to join in an adolescent fight
To save the poor from abuse.

Now he became another toy
A torn body, once eloquent, now mute.
He died to save the poor of France.
Too large was the price he paid.

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