There he sat,
the little old man.
Deep in thought,
as he stroked his grey beard.

He was once a great hero,
adored by all.
Champion of champions,
with a voice of an angel.

He would go to the center village,
singing to the children.
Though they had drastic problems,
the dark seemed to vanish.
Only music filled the air.

Music so sweet.
Music so pure.
Music that permeated every soul.

But others mocked him,
and he stopped.

With deep magic,
ages old,
he locked his voice in a jar.
He would never sing again.
He would protect himself.

But as time passed,
he often looked to the jar.
Itching to sing one more note.
One more peaceful note.
But he never did.

Now here he sits,
old as an oak.
Stroking his beard as he looks to the jar.
Reaching his withered hand out,
he feels the cool glass,
and the warmth emanating from inside.
Years of regret wash over him,
and there was nothing he could do about it.
Nothing but be separated from his voice by a thin.

Piece.

Of.

Glass.