Your memories hanging in little stones
some may shine, some may not.
The memories of a man in his old age
Are the deeds of a man in his prime.
You shuffle in the gloom of the sickroom
And talk to yourself as you die.
Life is a short, warm moment
And death is a long cold rest.
Sometimes an image of ourselves is captured in a tinny frame of space, it may only appear for a few seconds. It’s like the world chose to embody our inner universe for us to see, and maybe ignore, in a fleeting moment so pure so essential. There, it’s only you and light.