These slivers of water softly glide
Beneath this broken lance,
Sending moon struck flowers,
And sun tossed stars effortlessly into
          Sun scorced laps.

As with the mourning tempests that ravaged placid plains
The previous scars are forgotten under a light
          And delicate mist.
It is oh so white,
Oh so brief,
Oh so beautiful.

What daggers are these that pierce?
And what hands are these that wish to grasp,
          But only hold?
From what dream were you born?
From what hope?
From what breath

The twinking eyes in the dusk filled skies
Start a shiver in the mountainous river,
Resonating as it spills,
          Overflows into,
                    Is engulfed,
                             Embraces the sea.
                    From stony ground green roots spout
                    And ensare bare chests with a gentleness
                    That exists only in those who have seen
          Those twinkling eyes,
                    Those placid eyes,
                              Those eyes that know no evil.

Gentle breaths now sweep this age tried grass.
They sweep willingly, and sleep willingly, and brush
Themselves against the gentle sighs.

                                                                                   This pale skin is all too soft,

                                                                         These closed eyes all to peaceful,
                                                            Those shallow breaths all to mesmerising,
                                                                              Those soft hands all to gentle.

Forget those corpses left
On broken stone altars.
The eyes of darkened crows and
Withered trees guard them under grim-clouded skies.
Forget those old wounds that left
You tired and broken,
Under blistering heat.
This pale skin is all to soft.