it's my first ever poem made originally as a song, with a melody.
you're the daughter of Laplace, but you can't recall.
The way the sun will shine
might just tell you how you die.
And in the river's flow,
is where it's written you will go.
The day the tide comes in,
you try to keep a count of it.
The record's washed away,
kept only by the floating grains.