I see upon that water still,
When an oar cleaves it through
What remains are ruffles, they fill
With some more water, new…

And so we live our daily lives
Every day, both pain and pleasure
And we use memories as little knives
To each, cut a different measure…

Like an old attic, full of musty air
And dusty books, trunks and trophies
We store in our mind, but do not care
Till at last, it wears down, or atrophies

Some bright sunshine, a creative spark
Into each life, like dewdrops fall
We must nurture it, pamper it, not let it go dark
Lest we forget, we were meant to stand tall…