I am no sage but, living in humble quarters
Forsaking for souls, making a sacrifice
To leave my footprints

I am walking on constant pebbles
When the white dove lands for a peck
And the air smells of July

The sea is silent barring the wind
Like some chirping performer
Gets the act with admiring shores

No one weeps, or misses a life
A promise, a hope lost, or an act of great loss,
Good things move on here.

lighthouse