That wall.

Like rain that patters on the windowsill,

or drops of dew that cling to morning grass.

 

So my thoughts of being, wander.

 

Away from the places I call home,

and the faces of people I call my own.

 

To things that cannot be explained,

people that to me have no names.

To times of sarrow,

times of trust.

Machines that have been swallowed in rust.

 

These are my visions.

 

My desire.

Your fate.