I used to write for you.
That blank face I will never see.
Whose heart can still be touched,
Or face still knows the path to form a smile.
Who dreams a little dream of a time that should have been or never was
Or might have been ruined by the snow.
The one whose secret wounds were hard to satisfy.
I used to sing for you lovely songs.
You who live in that space between the rainbow and the heaven.
Who longs to drink from the leaves of the eternal tree.
Whose fingers could be the finest silk if only given the chance.
For you that can remember how to love.
But now I spend the days burning my pages.
This I also do for you.