Minutes crumble in echoes as old age never comes as I prose what never goes. Mornings spread in cellos as strings trace our autumns minutes crumble in echoes. Evenings raise their bows into the horizon that strums as I prose what never goes. With each strum, history grows in a plum meadow that hums: minutes crumble in echoes. As plums tango, I, so close fall in its stream of blossoms as I prose what never goes. As my last hourglass flows, a memory dripping becomes minutes crumbling in echoes as I prose what never goes.