Losing sight of my native land-
Last time I ever saw the frontier,
A civilization covered in sand-
Let go of your doubting fear.
Taking refuge on the way,
The last summer dandelion,
In the land without one day-
Every breath; each night a million!
Months, equivalent to a Quinter,
Fragrant of spring, strawberry pie-
Blindness not caused by a splinter,
My birthright, to persist in the sky.
@metasophical