Wayward off you go towards where your feet take you
Wayward daughter, wayward son
To the end of the world, we go
Towards the edge of soil and liquids
To the end, we go.
Stubborn deceit,
love is a foreign air—
we become the clothing we wear.
Wayward we go, to imagine our immortality;
to our sorrow; to our horror; to our heartless core, we found nothing more.
If our fate is to climb to the stars, a rule must be set never to forget the dirt, from which we were born. We become the clothing we wear.
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 10:55 AM UTC
Wayward off you go towards where your feet take you
Wayward daughter, wayward son
To the end of the world, we go
Towards the edge of soil and liquids
To the end, we go.
Stubborn deceit,
love is a foreign air—
we become the clothing we wear.
Wayward we go, to imagine our immortality;
to our sorrow; to our horror; to our heartless core, we found nothing more.
If our fate is to climb to the stars, a rule must be set never to forget the dirt, from which we were born. We become the clothing we wear.
