Perhaps that is why some thoughts don't remain in our hands they don't belong to be held only to be felt like the wind passing through the trees they touch us for a moment then they migrate to the night of another soul and we think we have lost them but ideas don't die they only change form on the wing of a bird in the eyes of a stranger in a melody that comes suddenly at midnight they are reborn those elves of wisdom you speak of perhaps they are the old lights within a person whose name he has forgotten but whose voice he recognizes and where thought is free no one can chain anyone's mind there ideas roam barefoot silent wild and endless