The water slices by so rapid,
Making all around it vapid--
The watcher sits alone,
In his hand he carries a stone,
With a silent prayer he throws the thought
That in his mind he had once fought.
The curious pebble travels far,
The motion in the water creates a scar,
Of the watcher's young, cursed heart,
And would he treat this as an art?
To throw his thoughts out with a flick,
If only the water were so slick--
Sly enough to hide his sins,
To throw away the past, the future then begins.
What must the water do once more,
To not simply steal this memory, to become a bore?
Shall it be free of the watcher's wish,
Shall it become the past's dish
Where all the unforgotten truths are told,
How the watcher, this stone, should hold.
The truth is nothing but a lie,
The lies can never ever die,
What will this rock, this water, have to do,
To make the watcher stop missing you?