Dumah’s wings have folded over;
Black and white fade into grey.
We struggle with indifference;
We work to find the words to say.
Weeds grow in grounds left long unkempt;
Roses choke and die under the weight
Thorns sticking still to skin and blood,
And yet the ground itself is what we hate.
White walls stretch into infinite days;
Tomorrows coming oh so slow.
But here we are, already old;
In the end, what do we know?