A book half-written dreams in dust,
Its spine unlaced, its gold undone.
The ink still stirs in slumbered trust,
Yet waits for lips that speak to none.

A hymn half-sung still aches to rise,
Yet falls between the silent keys.
Its notes dissolve, but never die,
A prayer unbreathed still bends the breeze.

What hands once graced these hollow lines?
What voice once carved its fate in stone?
The ink may dry, the song may wane,
Yet something lingers, half-unknown.

For pages turn though hands refrain,
And silence hums what words contain.
A hymn unwritten, yet it stays,
A voice unheard still shapes the days.