The road is empty where I come from
The doors have been closed, locked
A gentle breeze that once was
has also left me
\I stand in a waterless stream wondering
will it ever shimmer again, did it ever?
No, I bend to retrieve the last broken
twig of my lonely years
\Above birds fly free, in twos and threes
my solitude embraces me with open arms
painting a picture of that quiet field
below rotating clouds watch, whistling
\Enjoying their company of the rain
pouring down into my empty stream
heartless pellets consuming, surrounding
But it does not shimmer, no,
where I come from I stand saturated
embracing lonely years with open arms
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