A map of old, a map of dust,
Lost in a corner of our minds,
With broken bits, of hatred and cries,
That no hard wood could grind.
A map of darkness, a map of misery,
Sheltered with gold-plated stories;
Silence won’t reveal what is beneath,
The metal of yore would, to unfold the gospel and design a mind in wreath.
In the hollow piece of the map,
Awakens the force of truth, which is burdened by anything unlit.
The map is shattered now,
Not a one to fix it.
Time moves, and so do we,
And, everything revolves back to its place again, and also the mind’s plea.