They won’t recall the words I chose,
The soul forgets the spoken word,
they’ll fade like footprints in the snow,
dissolving under summer’s heat.

But deeper into forgotten sands,
Where spirits drink from unseen wells,
The weightless grace that stood between
Flourish into palm, citrus and olive trees,

So let me be a whispered prayer
That lingers long after I’m gone,
A touch of God underneath the skin,
A warmth that carries someone on,

Not what I have or what I gave,
Not what I’ve said, but how I’ve knelt,
Not who I was in flesh and bone,
But what their spirit felt.