For steps to count,
mistakes to make
in the knowledge
of what we’ll take
to the grave.
Passing stones
we had to step around.
Dropping tears
we had to abandon.
Growing grief
as our eternal haunt.
Our garden
has no roots,
trampled ever since
we gave birth
to our breath,
when it quickened
upon a single
fearful question.
Who are we,
in this gale,
under this hail,
within a storm
where we are
doomed to set sail?
Our lives,
when separate
is enough of a tempest.
Our veins,
branched like naked trees,
are enough roads to be lost.
When will we suffer
for the clarity
we can create,
under white clouds?
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