Tamara

Who can ever say, we’ll toast our bones, when we're back to stay, if the picture's not bright, we can cry but won’t, sometimes home’s not kind, thoughts that are sprayed, where we come from, are not often on display, like this harvest light, with hardly a sound, there is no gentle sky, maybe we'll take a train, like a winter's stove, warms us to dream, a horizon blind, we’ll navigate alone, seeking what’s right, happy on our ground.