Why Deaths Can’t Be Counted

There’s a tale about a violinist
Who kept playing after he broke one string

And then another, and then another,
Until he was down to a single string

But somehow still played brilliantly. One string.
There’s a fable about a ghostly girl

Who played such a sad song on her zither
That the emperor removed half her strings.

If the emperor had known the first tale
He might have known better. Sorrow will play

As poignantly on half as many strings
Or half as many again. On one string.