Something I wrote to Forgotten Tomb's Springtime Depression.

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With this I can swoon the swallows from their sunset flight;
flowing from blue to grey again, shattered silence floats to the bottom
of this one-room, and as I repose I wonder at the
flitting finches, suddenly still with my sound and as they
sit and stare, beautiful of themselves, I pluck another
strand from the air. It vibrates and folds the sky as curious rain
falls around like a draping shroud, comforting and enveloping my
senses, or what's left of them, dulled as they are by this
reverie echoing from these strings; and the night is filled with the
silence of the strings, great orbs wavering to their call and shuddering as
I once did so long ago on that fateful day when
the river maid did, in her cloak, enfold me and say
"This is the diadem of ages, and you possess it. Hold the folds in hands purposeful and share not with the blind, for they are consumed with rage. Let instead the moons laugh and dance with us among the forest groves and bring on your fingers a tune filled with joy and melancholy."
I could not waver from that place, but soon the dark caressed me and I could not but go so I shivered and hunched in the gloam and reached inside my head, pulling forth the diadem as my body quivered in the shade, the willows brushing and swaying me with the tepid stream kissing my ankles. I could never recall that feeling, though I tried. Then I left to swim among the shadows in tumult until at last it was restful and I drifted in silent oblivion for a time, gazing at the onyx sky with its greyed folds, holding me under. When last I saw that, I was asleep.
When I woke, I saw the diadem was instead a board of string, and so I gathered it up in my shadowy arms, recalling what the river maid had whispered at me in the dark, and I played into the night until at last a whole host of finches stared at my blurring hands, which struck a slow and sad melody.

I don't know if they ever took flight again, but they will always be beautiful to me.