They'll come, from there to here.
No it is not a pilgrimage,
The distance from you to I,
Relentless caravan
This always being forced
To choose a different sky.
'I' wants to know where 'you' is from —
It wants your story
As if you were carefully folded
Into your own silence.
Once over here you'll do the dance of shadows
Hanging about the courts
Waiting for judgement.
It's something 'handed down',
Ambiguous inheritance.