Fragments, unstrung

I am no musician,
neither did I want to be one,
until I heard somebody's music play,
on my way to death.
Not a famous piece,
to have reached me sooner ,
I heard it drift through
somebody’s windows distant,
on my way to death.
Maybe it did not mean anything to anyone else,
But it was an antidote to a dying heart - 

my young heart, that had given up.
I want to thank its creator,
But he might have long been dead.
How many musical pieces have died a death
on its climb to esteem, breathless .
Let me be a janitor ,
where musicians meet-
to pick up broken pieces of music ,
the ones they discard,
the ones breathless.
I am no musician,
but ,
let me dust my guitar and fix the strings ;
I’ll not let any piece of music die -
die an early death -
the music that its creator gave up on,
cursing to death ;
I’ll sing it by my windowsill ;
it may mean nothing to you,
but perhaps ,
it may reach someone ,
who is on his way to death -
that may even be a descendant of yours or mine,
born a hundred years from now.
what bigger reward,
than,
bringing someone back to life ,
though I may long be dead by then