In a musty barrel used for wine
When wine was not impossible to find
Before the turn in the stories of time
Before water lost out to land mines.

In an empty corner of a crowded lane
Where strangers sought the sound of rain
Vagabonds wander through the leaves
of winter trees that used to be.

Through the jagged glass of happy dreams
Two tiny eyes saw what had once been
wildflowers of spring and wind chimes
ghosts haunting killing fields.