There’s an innocence,
          Like children playing in graveyards,
                    That we’ve lost.

                    and

There’s a wanderlust,
          Like a dandelion’s progeny,
                    That we’ve abandoned.

                    And

There’s a love,
          Like the echoes under eyelids,
                    That we never forget.

                    And

There’s a task,
          Like sand on an ant’s back,
                    That we endure.

                    And

That task,
          Like the broken backs before,
                    Ends

                    And only when we do.