In the garden where shadows play,
sits a statue, cold and still like day.
But when moon's light starts to glimmer,
soft secrets in mist begin to shimmer.
Little hands reach, but never touch,
sculpted faces hold tales, no need for much,
silent in whispers, softly they hum,
stories of ancients when time was dumb.
Laughing winds carry a hiding place,
in the unseen, the dreams find grace.
Modular laughter from cloud top occasionally spritz,
echoing steps of the forgetful witz.