When Orpheus came to the gates below,
With lyre of light and voice of woe,
He crossed the river, dark and wide,
Where silent ghosts in sorrow hide.

No coin he bore, no sword he drew,
Just notes that burned like morning dew,
And as he sang, the shadows stirred,
Each heart recalled what once were burned.

He sang of love so pure, so bright,
Of Eurydice, his morning light,
Whose laughter once through meadows rang,
Till death cut short the song she sang.

He told of vows beneath the trees,
Of summer wind and honeyed breeze,
Of one small step, a serpent's bite,
That stole his heart and silenced light.

The hound of death lay still and mild,
The Furies wept like mourning child,
The Queen looked up with tender grace,
And love returned to her pale face.

The King of Hell, on obsidian throne,
Felt music pierce his heart of stone,
For never had a mortal song,
So righted all the ancient wrong.

Fate herself let slip a tear,
Apollo smiled from heavens near,
For sound and soul became the same,
And love outshone the fear and flame.

"Go, bring her back," the dark King sighed,
"Let beauty walk where once she died.
But turn not back till sun you see,
For doom will break your melody."

Through endless dusk they made their way,
Her hand in his, so cold, so fey,
Till silence crept where songs had flown,
And doubt became a mortal stone.

He turned with a heart too quick to yearn,
And saw her fade, too late to learn,
That love can sing, but can't command.
The law of gods, the ghost of hand.

Still somewhere deep beneath the skies,
His music through the darkness flies,
And every soul that hears it knows,
That love is what the lyre chose.

And so he roams where echoes dwell,
Who once made heaven smile on hell,
For beauty's gift, and sorrow's art,
Are born to live, and break the heart.