Ah, sang the words on the wall,
These daubs of sun are all small
Seeds of paint that wait to find
A new home in a new mind.
If you scan us for some clue
To the days that dried these blues,
The lungs that blew our red tints,
The hands that shaped these ashed hints,
The arms held up soaked in sweat
To sketch what hides in us yet,
Your thoughts seek out the wrong spot.
Where our hosts were, we were not.
While we wait still, they’ve long gone.
You’re the dawn that draws us on.
