Here among causeways of irony and hope,
I shoulder my robes full of autumn and its leaves
And harbour all reeds within time's storied urns
That breathe a few whispers of texts that are lost,
Now in our quarries of fate.
Tethered to their bones by memories now tossed,
I wonder and droop with chisel still in hand
And carve all my songs now on stone.
Etched with my veins that flower now on walls,
I wait for the gaze of one who would hear
Symphony of waves through these stones.