In this land of exile hiding from the agony
Waiting for our summoning in a blizzard’s cold reply
With spaghetti spills made of words and song
We huddle with books and TV
In the colors a sailor’s sky at morning brings
We scribble on the pages of our history
We try our best to understand, to sculpt some magic with chafing hands
As we watch the days just bleeding on while life feels so condemned
With spaghetti spills…
And what if we cannot go back to pull the moss from the sidewalk’s cracks?
Wrestling with our helplessness while trying to comprehend