The spheres float endlessly through the empty infinite
Never touching, never seeing
Each protecting a life-soul-essence
From the hungering dark outside
But do the spheres seek ever to consider
The thought-processes of their wards?
For though the spheres have banished their solitude
Have their wards so banished theirs?
And if the wards have then banished their isolation
Why is it then that they do sing?
Why do their songs of pain and loss
Echo in the vastness between
Never heard by their own
And listened to by only those who cannot hear?