The trodding of the toads
The crickets' creek
Schindler's smile
And bird's bolt.
All things jumble up
In an order, in a sequence,
and wait there
biting their lips
until someone notices
But you know what?
Even when you feel they are
Very much alive
They just never are;
They are still asleep
And will stay so forever and ever.
You are not their master, you fool
No one could be.
But yes,
You can be the master of
their copies, if you so want to.
But like the singing lake,
The reals cannot be touched.
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