Here are threads for your cloth, weaver.
To garment them who are neither lilies nor swallows,
But nomads in these islands whose trees
Have become mere stumps on the ground.
Together, we shall dye the raiment
With flowering colors of the entire spectrum
Biding in the long-lasting dark.
When our voices have wandered
Or gone quiet, perhaps they will listen for
The echoes as they wash the seams in the brook,
And in their hands let the words become flesh,
Fingers tightened into fists. Maybe from their eyes
They will add salt to the streams,
Eventually surging to be one with the sea.
Like clouds, wishes come in all shapes and sizes,
Much gazed and admired as they form and pass by,
But fullfilled only when they dissolve into rain.