Two tired. Earth hands. Tighten the clay. The ancient one. That swirling hurriedly. To get a form. White hair, without moving, like a scale from above, for years now. Survive resolutely. Dedicated to mr Aristeidis

Sometimes they stare still, who knows what? Sometimes they seem to sway, What dance? Sometimes they just exist, in what memories? But they will never represent anything specific, only some nights when your mind is open if you take notice of them as they needed. They can spare you something from the lost spring of the years that were being stolen.