Nothing Left but Sound

Just a simple poem, make of it what you will

When the piper can’t catch his breath and the birds can no longer sing,
When the pianist can’t compose, nor play, for he’s lost his keys.

When the hero’s finally captured and the binding comes undone,
And the sun no longer rises for, the moon had to jump the gun.

When all the question have been stated and all the answers are returned,
When the stars no longer shoot and the earth no longer turns,

When the rivers cease to run and all hearts refuse to bleed,
When the flowers no longer grow and fish no longer swim the seas,

When the grass no longer browns and the world is finally just,
When theirs nothing left but sound, what will become of us?