We spend our days fabricating false tales
While idle hands lazily tick off the hours;
The words weaved by eyes focused on the details,
Words once a device of beauty now sours.
Idle hands carve paper into gliders
To deliver poisonous hearsay bombs;
Our human vileness becomes wind riders
They land on idle lips that sing its psalms.
Never does it occur that those aeroplanes
Will find their way back to us, skin blackened with our crimes;
Never do we think the tocking will sound pains.
What can we do when at last the clock chimes?
The air alive by paper lies with “return to sender” -
In red; ears burn from the ringing will we surrender?