Surfing the faint, tireless breeze
Music from a distant park
The last half-hearted song
Of the sparrow
Fireflies like paper lanterns
In a far-away twilight

Long before conditioned air
In the hot, moist summer
Even clocks stopped running,
Too slow to mark
The interminable hours,
The memories, the sweat

Whole eternities passed
In the too long days
Of the too short summers
So entirely gone

There is no stylus so precise
As to record the passage of a soul
From one moment to the next