How would you describe those things to me?
The things
that cannot be bought and cannot be sold,
cannot be held, though can be told.
And roses as all material things, they fade,
but not the wind, it’s out of sight,
and those, I’ll take them to the grave.
And even the grave itself will turn into dust,
and that dust, gone will be.
Yet the wind prevails,
for that I cannot touch.
How many of the things
do I take for granted today?
Because my eyes allow them to be,
or my hands mark their beginning,
since I can divide them into several different pieces?
Pieces of worthless
How empty, thus, would you feel to admit
that the empathy of the stranger
sitting next to you
has more weight than the crystals
and stones you so boastfully wear this day?
And what about my own s o  u   l?
It is the things that I cannot touch
the ones that touch me the most.

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