Into the abyss - The Adventures Of Werner Holt

He played a fragile melody, Soft as breath on winter glass— A ghost of what this land once dreamed Before the dark began to mass. Werner heard in Peter’s playing A fading spark of who we were— A time that trusted truth and art, In love, in thought, in something pure. “We once believed in truth and art— A flame against the falling dark. Hold on, hold on to the spark— Before we’re torn apart.” The poets’ house was cracked and hollow, A nation crying through its beams. Peter whispered, pale but steady: “When peace returns, I’ll play again— Music will restore our dreams.” But then the death march came, A tide of sorrow and human shadows. One broken figure stumbled forward, And something in young Peter rose. He stepped into that fatal stillness, One moment bright with human grace— And darkness answered without mercy, Erasing Peter—and his faith. The world fell silent as he fell— No song could break that frozen spell. Abyss below, too deep to tell— And Werner left with only hell. And Werner hears that ghostlike music From a distant, bitter year— A wound that echoes through the soul, A truth too sharp for fear. In every poem ever written, In every note that once could bless— There trembles now a second voice: The echo of the abyss. THE ECHO OF THE ABYSS!!!