What goodness is there in this wine?
Am I trading time for smokey phantoms,
or is this the way it always was?
Rising from fire and running away.

All my dreams speak softly of progress
and the violence of life,
their murmurs like a word I mistake for my name,
echoing in a crowd and
turning me around.

I've found no solace in peace,
nor in the luscious droughts of love
together we drink and have been drunk on.
However, under my restlessness
my steps are sure,
and the road home,
winding as it may be,
seldom seems against me.