Poets, lay down your pens.
Put away your wishful words...
Spilled ink on stripped trees,
Too late to land the light that's found me.
Minutes to moments made their way,
Leaning heavily towards turning,
We all turned, 'round and 'round the sun
And now, the ceaseless lamps gently point their faces
Downwards.
The night that led the dew has faded,
Let your pensive thoughts retire -
Your hands take rest from moving 'cross the wanting pages.
The lamps have turned their light to fire.
Your whole heart on paper couldn't find this,
But I will hold this mirror,
Stand beneath it,
Send your ink to Earth and look to me.
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