Oh how frail stone turns Here in may hand's hold, It slips away like sand therethrough. It rests a Midas-like curse Here on my hand's hold. I bear a Midas-like curse Frail, I feel my hands numb, A phrase All through my hands. Grains, till my old hand goes on, afraid, Tracing vane odes for the grave, Only vane odes for the grave. I can not feel the texture With my hand's thumb As all I touch become true. The evil Midas-like curse here in my hands Make me unable to hold.