There is no mistake; it is now time for me to be gone.
I can tell because there no longer is water to renew the dusk,
and as I walk, the sad street walks behind me.
I see a tall ghost, carrying my bag,
as patient as only the dead can be,
but taking the first step is horror
even if rainwater hides my tears.

I’ve heard tales of travelers
who say prayers in every language of the world
and find prophesy in the eyes of children.
If you can hear my voice in the storm
then you can stitch your dreams into sails
and find your way home, where you belong.

I must leave, despite myself, I must be gone,
the hungry clouds and angry trees
force my path to narrow.

Choices made must still be paid,
but let me hold your eyes,
and my reflection upon them,
until I stand before you once more.

But I must be gone.