What are we but cracks in the skin
and the curves in our bones?
What are we but these callused hands
and fatigue in our souls?
Do we dream dreams alone?

What are we but trees in a storm
and what of the colors of rain?
What are we if not wholly insane?
What are we but those who forget
and fade into night with the sunset?

What are we but fluttering hope
and the quiet smile of lovers eloped
and the innocence with which we keep
and the will to be complete?

What am I but an infant heart,
and a soul that has lived through eternity?