Through the ceilings of neverendings, The hands paint a trembling farewell. No sorry. No sorries. A tear only. The only tear flashes the shadowed soul. There's no need for turbulence. Just a quiet rumble, Unravelling the hidden fear. Finitude: Sinking landscape. The dusty dome. It's the clock. It's the bold time, Tumbling down the rampage. Torn apart, the waves. The painting. The hands: Seaking landscape. And no other word. No other word. But wings.