She was once the open sky
the great, omniscient, weeping eye,
 
but sounds of drums all took her sleep
and she awoke from love so deep.
 
It plucked her up, strung her out, and the beat
cuffed her feet and, like skis: slid forward to retreat.
 
She can mull and chew and spit each lens hollow chivalry
but they must break and whine beneath a once great timpani.
 
Each cadence fills a note on her flute.
She is truly the pied piper of the mute.