Not Me Who Moved the Rocks

What was that hurt you
carried so lightly as we
walked but so heavy in you?

The way you played those
strings, moved your fingers
into music . . . was that . . .

What music did you play
only in the terrible shadows
where so much of you lived?

It was not me who drove you
like a snake from under those
damp rocks. It was not me

with an snarl, a finger pointed.
I only listened, wondering
how much of you played

only in the terrible shadows.

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