Mid the shoreline and the night, hustle of fire underneath my feet.
Even smoke lost its might, it's relying on my own heat,
nothing but a late reply how many days and why
crossing that long bridge has taken us.
When the lasting rain has passed, all the world turned ours but the stars,
but the stars.
Mid the shadows and the void, hollow smoke's lying low-wing.
Setting sun is too annoyed to engage, and birds are following,
every single fledgling borne by the fire-blown storm
claiming change of nests with turbine buzz.
When the wearing flight is past, all the land is theirs but the stars,
but the stars.
Mid the "has been" and "has not" will the clouds of predawn retain.
The unwanted moonlight thought they would put to rest its sleepy stain
in the high-dimension mess outside of GPS
to desert the loop of bitter parts.
This side of the weathered pane songs are calling every name except the stars;
but the stars.
Original: altwall.net/texts.php?show=tequilajazzz&number=39908
Original/video: www.youtube.com/watch?v=YTq2efTScpM