I stand here, wanting, waiting Your thoughts, still daunting and haunting. I stand here , singing ,seeing, sewing the sherds that fall out. I stand here , With flowers in my hands And faith in my heart . I stand here , picturing your face and counting my days. ( This is based on what I saw , one day I saw this old man with roses in his hands , in an old museum, its walls were thorn and the paints were in patches. I asked him about the flower , it was for his wife who died a month before)