A lonely boat on lonely shores,
Just wood and salt and screaming waves;
Those are the days the wind still mourns:
For our fate...

And crude arms 'round my neck still hang
Just shallow steps of ink on paper-rush:
A dusted pen and long forgotten words,
To hush...

Said nothing more than I had wrote,
Yet nothing less,
Many words to remember...
And words to forget;

With drops of ink, white paper stained,
The memories have smell of rain,
Yet rain they are...