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.