The weeping of the guitar begins. Wineglasses shatter in the dead of night. The weeping of the guitar begins. It's useless to hush it. It's impossible to hush it. It weeps on monotonously the way water weeps, the way wind weeps over the snowdrifts. It's impossible to hush it. It weeps for things far, far away. For the sand of the hot South that begs for white camellias. Weeps for arrows without targets, an afternoon without a morning, and for the first dead bird upon the branch. Oh, guitar! Heart gravely wounded by five swords.