Drifting helplessly into strange, foreign lands, I find myself humming an old folk tune in fragments interspersed with tears, music being the only thing I can think of to numb my pain.

Every healing word I know is void
Watching silence greet every desperate cry
Everything we shared, everything we said
Watching memories freeze as they pass me by

That age-old poet had thought he was singing about failing to win back a lover who had left him, but to me the words now take on a completely different meaning. The birds in the trees lining the riverbank sing their own tunes. Happy, joyful tunes. They have no idea what they are talking about.

I hum another ancient song.

How do I build from impossible stones;
Where’s the ground to hold them?
How do I walk from infinity home
After wandering there?

The impossible stones are the things you never prepare for, never admit are possible, because they’re too terrible to contemplate until they happen. And infinity is the distance to a place that doesn’t exist anymore.