which the molten skies have woven
Fade into the ancient doodles of time.
Stories scattered in the magic human sand blur into memories,
Of a vagabond dancing beneath the trees
A mellow evening breeze is swallowing me up,
And I am locked in a rusty caravan of trodden old photographs.
A tinkle of smile, a sprinkle of tear,
When the evening's dark with no star to steer,
And fireflies on my hand,
Weave me a dream of a starry garland.
Then I start dancing to the tunes I've been singing
Unless I find from what I was running.