Across the town on the other hill,
your lights glow from a different world.
You always found a place to hide - nails and cross to lay beside;
with all the ghosts that we denied.
Now, in rippled arcs across the sky, the great white birds of winter fly;
and the wheel turns, and people change - scattered ashes to the wind.
And there's no pain, there's no pain, there's no pain.
A dry river in the blazing sun . . .
-Justin Sullivan-