before counted time
there was death
where dreams cease
like a broken branch
nevermore to leaf
the moon and stars
care not
the sun passes over
the clouds
and winds prevail
while the spirit
crosses a river
or into a light
those remaining
shed tears
washing out their
souls
remembering the
last wave
or the grip of the
hand
that lead to
the end of
language
and wishing
Roger Singer 