I saw a pile of stones,
waiting to be recognized for its own.
a surface where people couldn't roam
such a lonely sight while the river flow.
each bird would rest and sing,
hoping the stones would be seen.
they were unseparable ever since.
the lonely sight would slowly rinse.
a tune that plays in my head,
comes to me until I tuck to bed.
is it something I should lend?
I fear that it will end.
each memory flows like water.
leaves wither but I hope these will linger
every minute gets thinner,
another reason for us to be better.
- remy
