With a wave of delicate fingers


    Echoing the morning’s first ray


    But pain on its tip still lingers


    Reminding of the ending of day.


    Still looking at vanishing lenses


    That stares into emerald eyes


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    And piercing my hopeless senses


    Severing grieving and painful ties.


    Tapping the rain-stained window


    A flash of ink has been shed


    Whose spreading image of ether


    Open a path to the dead.


    Still scribbling on purified papers


    With sharp and delicate nails


    All things shall be made known


    With a wave of delicate fingers.


    Stretched on an ebony surface


    The quill traces all thoughts


    With lines ripped from midnight


    Connecting the targeted dots.


    A map slowly emerges


    Whose treasure one’s life must pay,


    The sun will be the set compass


    Echoing the morning’s first ray.