Old books
Bones
Tears of dried up dust
Parchment
Pretty pinks
Artists on the candelabra caper
Eyes closed
Eyes less than halfway
Wide open
Turned stones
Clay specks
Decked on dormant rust
Just because you can
Indeed so much
That you must
Just because I am
In the time
I learned to trust
Old books
Where now the repetition
Translated from dawn till dusk
By the shores of the longest river
With the still smooth pebble
Skipping on the water
Parchment
Where now Egyptian paper
Stated in fair governance
By the night of the oldest moon
With the still smooth dream
In the palm of your hand
