But these stories, are they only that?
The hands, fragile and empty,
Have a leftover impression of what was.
Told and retold through time,
Spoken and not spoken.
Fresh thoughts, though not to be
Unmasked by the lullaby storm,
Break the rush and the wave.
Droplets of this and droplets of that,
To know what must be said and done,
But only knowing.
Never feeling.
