Wherever it is that you are/The soft song of your exile/Is echoing in this country.
Its loudness resounding/as the chiming bells of grass blades/slicing the rain for your voice.
And the man toiling on end/ without no one to pay for/he described his pain like this:
The moon eclipsing the sun/a scarring black shadow/that erases your existence/to a figment of imagination.
The moon sneaks to draw the sun/escaping a painful gravity/sinking it’s bare hands into it’s boiling gut.