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.