Destination
There are some nights,
when we wait for the bus
clasping dry hands and watching scores of ants
go thorugh their meaningless nightly toil
until the 1:15 or 12:00 comes (depending on the day)
and there are no other options but parting.
Our hands are wetter now,
and the ants continue working away
(at God Only Knows what)
and the buses keep coming and going
on the ebb and flow of their never-changing
never-followed schedule
and we, the ones that wait,
will always wish that there was nowhere else to go.
One night, we shall let the bus fly past,
let the ants do their blue-collar labour,
and we'll change our destination to one another.
Clasping moist hands,
sitting together by the roadside,
the two of us dreaming until all the passing cars roll into one.
when we wait for the bus
clasping dry hands and watching scores of ants
go thorugh their meaningless nightly toil
until the 1:15 or 12:00 comes (depending on the day)
and there are no other options but parting.
Our hands are wetter now,
and the ants continue working away
(at God Only Knows what)
and the buses keep coming and going
on the ebb and flow of their never-changing
never-followed schedule
and we, the ones that wait,
will always wish that there was nowhere else to go.
One night, we shall let the bus fly past,
let the ants do their blue-collar labour,
and we'll change our destination to one another.
Clasping moist hands,
sitting together by the roadside,
the two of us dreaming until all the passing cars roll into one.