Out of thin air I pulled the dewdrops,

from a hidden humidity,

and set them over humanity's eyes.

Currency of the soul they were,

and clearer than verity itself

in the midst of a blatant lie.

That day I could not bear to wonder,

yet the question plagued me;

deep in the well beneath my skin it cried:

"How can the last man standing

cover the chasm with dewdrops

when everything he ever loved has died?

See how the winds blow steady,

callously burdening

with their hollow bells, pristine white?

May this field of three-leaf clover,

crimson-stained by sundown,

bear their torrent till the moment it subsides.

And if I had a thousand of such moments,

what peace could break forth

out of a loneliness that flows from life's great tides?"

Thus I formed the dewdrops:

infusing them with sustenance

such as the spirit carries in its veins.

And with such life their bodies found

a petrified blessing,

forever in the presence of the rain.