We walk in bone fields of unknown dead
And crush the shards of countless shattered dreams
With each careless step.
Occasionally someone stops,
To whisper on the wind to those forgotten,
“I remember. I remember.”
A bird flying overhead might reply:
“You have been those bones.
Pick up whatever dreams you’ve lost and go on your way.
You will forget again soon.”
For a brief moment, the sun becomes radiant,
And the earth shifts.