Stalled in void and care of government,
Skating along in a permanent present,
Wasted in the quiet and blinding sun,
Perfect children hiding from late rain,
In bus-shelters and scarred cement,
Our shadows rippling at our sides,
Made permanent by this long drought,
And the grit of our own cortices.
But being new and unflawed minds,
We sigh and with hot, shallow breaths,
We shall overcome in any generation,
And being unoccupied and beautiful,
We need no understanding of the world,
Or thoughts of future sustenance,
The blistering road burns our eyes,
The light sky is squeezed by storms,
To a narrow, distant golden runway.
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