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Oh how frail stone turns
here in my hand's hold,
it slips away like sand therethrough.
It rests a Midas-like curse
here on my hand's hold.
I bear a Midas-like curse

Frail,
I feel my hands numb,
a phrase
all through my hands.
Grains,
till my old hand goes on,
afraid,
tracing vane odes for the grave,
only vane odes for the grave.

I cannot feel the texture with my hand's thumb
as all I touch becomes true.
The evil Midas-like curse here in my hands
makes me unable to hold.

Frail,
I feel my hands numb,
a phrase
all through my hands.
Grains,
till my old hand goes on,
afraid,
tracing vane odes for the grave,
only vane odes for the grave.

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