The wind scale of a still land scape,

An utter rush of flitting in the air.

A daze occupation of inactivity and a sleepy tree all over in time.

I don’t know if calls of it exist,

I don’t know if destination waits a bit,

I don’t know if flit of the breeze makes it to the end but only if I could know it.

And only if I could hold it.

The divine of travel did not make it right,

The terror of fright we could not realize,

There’s a still in already still-

we never came to be known and just how fast our fingers turn wrong.

Never in time we know truths.

It’s never a wonder to hold the silence- it’s just so fantastic that we know it exists.

Getting ourselves wrong and happenings of wrong both exist in a simmer of frightful end,

If we could jump the ways we would know the plight of uncured ‘tends’.

A day tomorrow- no one’s sure and today passes in the repent of yesterday’s loss.

Was this a life God intended?

Or just we created a solace of unfinished in a dark thought.

No way round do we reach the answer,

No way round do we approach the silence.

It is not we, I realize but already a lord sits above.

But still not getting if it really brings the end?

For the moments forget memory but memory do remembers the

moments.

If this brings end I hope everyone lay unfinished before the eternal right approaches our wrong,

This way we could share the last one word,

This way we would embrace our silences better.

For what brings end is not so in itself and what do end is not surely a wry of unfinished but a way to the finished

that would soon end.