And what did happen,
Mr. McLean?
What happened when the music died?
Did they sing "bye-bye"?
Or perhaps something more tragic took place.
Did they cry?
Did they, themselves, die?
Not a tear shed, not a sound made as she, with grace, spoke her parting words.

For what good is dancing if there be no rhythm?
For what good are instruments if they do not fulfill their purpose?
What will the birds do?
How can we define a beautiful noise, "like sound to my ears"?

I think it wise to overestimate the sanctity of those harmonies we cherish with such intensity.
Practically a religion, we tithe our money for its funding, we congregate to listen together, and we recite its verses akin to a scripture.
Forever remember the day it died, remember it as a fallen war victim, as a martyr.

Only dying for what it knew best,
For what it was, and for what it did in others

Honor her with silence, for singing is no more.
Remember that it died with pride,
Remember that, as it sang its final note, it echoed,

                                     "This'll be the day that I die"