Feathers float in rivers by
Their dreams shone slightly through maker's cries
Some foreign land falls slowly to bricks
Undone by their faker's tricks.
Do fly home before the crickets cry.

Islands anchor in seasons by
Their dirt packed tightly through makers cries.
Some host shakes roses to flakes
Untold for their faker's sakes.
Do fly home before the crickets cry.

Matches flick in treachery by
Their souls frail lightly through maker's sighs.
Some feathers smoke
Unattended by their faker's cloak. Do fly home before crickets cry.

Or forsake the night with a flame
And a nest unseen by their faker's yoke.