It lingers like old smoke and older memory.
A familiar song from battlefields of old.
Fate tightens when she appears, but never enough to be sure.
Laughter of leaves, mischief of moss, and curiosity of sunbeams.
Mirrors are not empty. And not all reflections belong to you.
Bound in ritual, sustained by purpose, every fold a memory.
Silenced by life, it will make itself heard in death.
He knows every name, every sorrow, but blesses every morning.
