I write to you on paper thin as leaves,
to tell you of the shadows that we keep.
The clock upon the mantle softly grieves,
while all the busy streets have gone to sleep.

You take the ink and fade it into gray,
and turn our brightest mornings into dust.
Yet in your gentle hands we leave the day,
and in your silent passage put our trust.

So take these letters, fold them in your chest,
where centuries of silent echoes lie.
Of all your treasures, memory is the best,
written beneath the ever-changing sky.