Tis' the rising mist of morning's grey,
surety of what I can't see, of what I am, and can't be.
Tis' the shadow of a tree,
the branches broken; the hanging softly swayed.
And to the wood's music,
I'll dance and sing to my own music; mingled with the slow
beat of the earth.
The wood! My harp!
And from the canopy, strings of sunlight filter down.
I will tune them. I will play them,
in the hope that my song stay with them.
From the grey ... a golden harmony.
What am I but the space between them?
What am I but the briefest moment of mingling colors?
What am I in this infinite scene?...
but a chord that is struck; but a word that is written
And should my tune resonate far enough.
Should that melody be carried to the boughs,
I pray that it rests there, joining the song of a passer-by
Long after my bones be free and my soul reclaimed.