Where is that place we used to go
with monument trees and stoic skies?
Untouched by the scent of purpose
and never spoiled by our lies.
Staring out raindrop windows
and wishing for those old days
that flew out off the runways.
Far too late it's thought we can fix this,
there's nothing that cannot be corrected
Flat note statements on pianist terminals
this symphony so poorly directed.
A dry hand, an uncaring shoulder
regret for compassion shown too slow
and the last fake-smile phrase
I wonder if it's cold in Nagano?