The Empty Song

Do you remember the street bard at San Francisco, who wrote you a couplet, for a dollar... of meteorites and half dreamt dreams of cowboys at the break of twilight? Just when the rain came pouring like silver glitters and the darkness grew insanely thick, your fingers touched the lonely "santoor" and a blue-grey shadow kept crouching in the empty room, reminding you of a forgotten letter you never mailed to a long, lost friend.