The notes of the song play, unrelentingly. They search for someone to hear their cry. They sing a song that few have head, but it’s a song that all have experienced. It’s a song of mourning, a song of joy, a song of celebration, and a song of war. It’s a ballad, waltz, and concerto.
But if no one is there to hear the song, then does the song even exist?
So the song ends, unfulfilled. With no one to hear it, it becomes a waste of energy, a monument to a spirit that no longer exists. It cannot find it’s own heaven or hell. There isn’t even a purgatory for it.
The song ends, the song dies. All songs must end and when they end, they wither like an untended garden or an ancient ruin left to decay until the end of time.
The song is a poem that needs to be sung, but never is. And like an Ancient Egyptian temple, the sands of time erode it, until it can be heard no more.