They stole her strings,
 
  bound her fingers navy blue,
 
  mistook her resonance for dissonance,

  and tore her from a hellish hue.

 
  Ivory smoke curled pale to the wind,
 
  as she cried her song and her knuckles were skinned.

 
  They left her with assonance,
 
  but much to her adamance,

  she'd play for them once more,

  only this would hold significance.

  She callused her palms,

  worked them thick to the bone,

  stole strings from the stars,

  so that she could return home.

 
  And when finally the day came,

  she stood before them; eyes aflame,

  swore to the night they'd cry her name,

  and she'd finally beat them at their own game.