I hold the oars
In hands, to meet the trail
Back to the valley
Where your arms are crossed
In the earth, beneath my feet.
For I sail a trace
Upon this death-space,
Where vows are won,
Though deeds were done.

One final lingering moment
To the penance, to the rapture
Of moments stolen
From your feeble youth
Tongue-tied to be brazen
As the ocean is frozen,
Crumbling in your empty hands.

Hold the holy hour
Upright,
That I might send a segment of solace
To the moon of you,
As you fold your arms
About the heart of you,
As you sing without parted lips.

I still hear
Those echoing sobs,
On the voyage through the valley.
I still am near
To the fires, where faces are desperate,
Yearning
To hold some mode of sympathy
For the future’s upcoming
Secret symphony.