A big, black balloon.
Millions of pinpricks and one big hole.
In that night sky, he saw himself.
But, then moonlight streamed around
And the stars twinkled.
He lay on the grass and looked up
They say that light travels slow
Too slow where the distances are infinite
That the night sky is the past.
Thus, the memories were preserved
The curly winds brushed the monochrome leaves
It's gentle sound, the very sound of life
In that gentle breeze, he drew new constellations
After that, he got up and put on his backpack
And then started his meandering walk
The wanderer, he was.
Millions of pinpricks and one big hole.
In that night sky, he saw himself.
But, then moonlight streamed around
And the stars twinkled.
He lay on the grass and looked up
They say that light travels slow
Too slow where the distances are infinite
That the night sky is the past.
Thus, the memories were preserved
The curly winds brushed the monochrome leaves
It's gentle sound, the very sound of life
In that gentle breeze, he drew new constellations
After that, he got up and put on his backpack
And then started his meandering walk
The wanderer, he was.
