Of course there are things
Which we can't understand.
We're the blind, matching colors,
To draw in the sand.

We're the fingerless wretch,
In the noise.


By course, we are beings,
Which we can't understand.
At best, we are lightness,
Alone and unplanned.

We are tokens of use.
We are toys.


But, you're dear to me, still,
You're the closeness of nil.
You're the smallness of peace.


You're my joy.