Echoes drifting, stretching questing fingers into the woven faces.

Mist-blue silence rolls in with it, bringing the phantom pain back,

And the sky turns to a wall between the weather and the heart.

Gray and silver flames drip slowly down the barriers erected,

Unspoken tears follow the path, so many times since it was first tread.

Raindrops like bullet wounds sear the weeping-holes shut and open new ones,

A broken second and a chord shudder through the fog, slashing violet.

Deep violet lightens shade by shade, swiftly rotating the prism hues to silver.

All is still again, only the familiar shapes of forest sentinels pierce the cloud,

And all belongs to the fog.