color has fled the sky
blinded by the sharp, white sun
we drift until we land
among chalky ridges
devoid of leaf or claw

voices of reassurance
keep calling after us
yet here we have little
but ourselves to save us
stale water, stale air,
dry bread, what little there is

if we're lucky, we'll return
but for now, we revel
in the miracle that we are here
and look back upon our sullied asylum
stirring with cacophonic frenzy
distant, isolated and inaudible