There so like beautiful feelings shaken
An immortal hand cries in ink
Should not what time has forsaken
Be a shade above, that which one thinks

While water is not on the flowers whom
Bless the names or years
White burning sand hears those cries so blue
From the hands own, ink stained tears

What would it take for a living thing
To be caught within this hand
Feel what beautiful feelings shaken brings
Yet lose his hand to its command

My verse is a mystery, even now to me
As my mortal hand cries in ink
Yet should not what is returned always be
A shade above, what one thinks