The Workings.

She never quite understood those quick moments
that fell with the sun in its trembling hours
as there is neither man nor woman who would
think of the forgotten.

She became no more than the unquiet sea
and held any reflection that wasn't her own,
seeming to grin at the pale-faced moon
while childrens' voices shriek out of tune
and fade away to aphotic places.

Remembering the little sins shrinking fast
from the viewpoint of eternity,
reviving the forgotten and cutting them into the modern.

And the wind would pass her by
to find it's still melody,
letting her surface break apart with the tidal waves
and the promises of Alcmene.

She never thought of those quick moments
that once were nostalgic memories,
as what has become can not remain --
pulchrun est paucorum hominum.