There are sad refrains in a life, repeated bars which bring no joy to hear. I knew a mythical creature called a griffin. I had little love for this beast, and great interest in avoiding him. In life, some cannot be avoided, and music often repeats a theme, brings back an idea.
The last time I saw this mythical creature was on a Thanksgiving. At dinner I suffered, though I knew no cause. I felt ill, but had no real place to pin my ailment. It was, it seemed, a malady I am well familiar with; the darkness had come over me.
I excused myself from family and wandered the circuit of my street. There, before the first turn, was the griffin. We were both not children. We walked together, and talked. We said nothing until we parted. He went off to kill himself I fear, for his words indicated something dark.
My mouth was shut, for yet having one tongue I found then no internal union to say what I longed to say. We were still wrapped in our hatred—or I was, and he was wrapped in something darker still—and all I wanted was to be free of it, to set us free of our past.
I have not seen the mythical creature since, but long still to speak—though I was in my darkness mute—long to forgive him. We were children; we hated each other; we are men; I live in darkness.