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There, in the distance, we see a glimmer of home,
And we, run, scurry, stumble over our own dreams
To reach out for a poorly painted picture of the light at the end of the corridor which vaguely and strangely gives a comfort of memory.
We run, skip, jump over valleys, and reach
For the flickering lights in the cabin, surrounded by trees, in the middle of central park,
Just beside the public toilets and a cart which sells lemonade, sarcasm, and hope.
And we walk proudly, parading our Wednesday dress
To the everybody (Nobody) who cares to look
And we promise that we will shout our joy and our dreams from the rooftops,
But truly, probably we will never even be brave enough
To whisper them to ourselves in the screaming silence of night.
Even when the darkness swears that she will hold our secrets in both hands
And never let them go
Never let us go
We never let them go
Because instead, we run towards the painted light that holds us to a strange comfort that we feel existed in our past and can never exist in the unknown.