His knuckles fought hard to find the keys,
But for all the songs of saffron and indigo,
The anthems of the bricklayer and his stones,
Coaxing melody from his tired frame,
Krishna played his accordion.
He played for us all,
Every prayer that had ever been beaten
Into his fingertips,
Every paper ever lashed to his heels
With cords of pride
And when his hands fell silent to the floor,
Krishna gave himself to the sea.
The cathedral of gallows mailed its letters to the king,
Laid them on blankets on the shore,
And hung itself from the lampshade,
So Krishna could read the pages of their days
Until the morning came once more.