For each string I pick
there is a woman
with her child
sitting on the sidewalk
telling him a story
of a false reality.

For every dollar she spends
there is a gust of wind
carrying something greater
that just leaves
cradling the secrets
swept away from their owners.

For every rock a child tosses
into the fast-moving river
there is someone
or something
separated from another
but we may never learn
that a note is never the same
and money is hardly earned
and rocks don't float