Whose unseen hands have seized his cairn
And cast its stones across the field
Where, as young lads, they sat and talked
With slumber laden purple hues?
He places a stone upon the pile.
He closes his eyes. "You know, my friend?
I think I can be twelve again.
The summer breeze upon my face
Feels just as warm and sweet as then."
He turns his hopeful face to him.
He fades into the grass once more,
As always happens when he sees,
Through aging eyes, the memories
Which, like his piled up stones, endure.
The unseen hands of time have traced
The lines upon his hands and face.
And, lines engraved upon his heart,
By unseen hands, will not depart.
Where one line ends, another starts.
And that is why he piles up stones.
And builds what unseen hands do rend.
He visits his departed friend
And proves that unseen hands can mend.