Pointing gently toward the sky
they will stand, long after we die.
And watch over the empty house,
Talking to winds, to birds, to clouds,
About rain, sunshine,fog and ice,
Bumblebees or butterflies.
But if a breeze should ask one day,
"Who lived down there?" They'd sigh and say:
"Some poor strangers, who come from far,
Probably from another star,
And after their days were spent
They just took off again, and went."
Pointing gently in the sky
They will stand, long after we die.