When all the Wild come home,

And the Wishful stop their praying,

When home is found in people,

Not in empty, wooden places,

When night knows no silent screams

And our hearts don't clink and jingle

From the sound of broken dreams,

The angels can stop their crying.

For they envy all those who feel the sun,

Who fall to feel the wind,

Who still have fears from which to run.

When every pond of joy and pool of grief runs dry,

In sandy-bottomed pits,

We'll breath our last sighs.

There, on the floor of the abyss, amongst the sunken ships,

Is where we'll plead for more time.

Though an infinite amount would never teach us

To love without suspicion,

To make the angels proud

And prove it's not the stuff of fiction.

So at the beating of their wings,

We'll take one last breath

And all swear we did our best.