The night that I cried for his lost gray life , my heart fell open like an old music box , rolling through lost notes and never - gripped hands . It played for the one who had polished the works , who wound the key till my voice began , then set me on a singing plane . It ’ s your time , he said , and then it was his time . I ’ ll let you go . I said , as if I could to or hold him again . Now I rail against time to hear the voice , to get home . Scarab in the sandstorm , maddened by wind .