What do you call a song not sung?
What do you call the breeze not felt?
The rain that never fell?
The ocean waves that never crashed against a lonely beach?
What do you call that which has never come to pass,
Or never can?
What do you call that which cannot be named
Because it never was?
Swirling and circling around us, day by day,
Worlds without end vanish and decay
Like a drop of water in the sea.
Did they know they even existed?
That they mattered?
When the future dies, does it know?
Or is its passing soft and silent,
Shrouded and forgotten to even itself?
What do you call a joy not felt?
A tear not shed?
A moment never shared?
What do you call these things?