My day is done, and I am like a boat drawn on the beach, listening to the dance-music of the tide in the evening.

Perhaps the crescent moon smiles in doubt at being told that it is a fragment awaiting perfection.

Praise shames me, for I secretly beg for it.

I sit at my window gazing The world passes by, nods to me And is gone.

By touching you may kill, by keeping away you may possess.

The child ever dwells in the mystery of ageless time, unobscured by the dust of history.