At Rebdorf Monastery Poem by Richard Theze

My guitar lies
Perfectly
Still now,
Blackcased
Behind the door;
And, I,
No longer sure,
Of chords,
Notes,
That once before,
Sprang
As struck bronze
Full, resonant, loud,
Reverberant with beer
And tobacco smoke.
Then, we,
The crowd,
Intent avowed
(Pilgrims of a sort)
Sang strident songs
Of leaving.
You, the first,
A missed chance,
To dance
As well as sing.
Your glass,
Left
Unfilled,
A treasure still,
As I remember
A promise made,
Forgotten.