He beats like the thunder,
Goes well with the guitar though,
And violins played like requiem,
Lights out, his face looks hollow.
Crowd screamed the war-cry,
From the sea of hands, an echoing praise,
Calling out their black angels,
Rhythmic, gothic, emotive craze.
As he felt his sweat freezing,
The drumbeats lose their tone,
Melancholic sounds were now heard,
And the violin played alone.
Behind the quartet the drummer falls,
Unnoticed behind the dark,
But the gig goes on,
Unmindful of a missing spark.
And yet another song was next,
Drums were silenced,
So was the drummer on the floor,
And the arena was tensed.
Well, I was in tears,
Forgive me when I let him play,
I just granted his request,
To make music on his last day.
