You return like a bird after harvest
Back to our nostalgic island, back

How was the mainland, dear?
And I ask sincere,
What did it lack?

Was it frigid as people?
Could you see the polluted rivers
Of industrial towns?
And hear the cling
As the hammer pounds
As the people worked to remain
Unchanged
Could you feel fastidiously faint
Pain?

What about the outskirts -
How was the country
With agrarian servants?
Did they have a good harvest
With a gratuitous celebration
And a festival of grandeur?
Did you feel left out?
As they devoured the crop.

Were the houses beautiful?
Baronial and Regimented - did they ever stop?
Or did they extend into oblivion?
Did the light ever go out on the people
And cause frantic chaos
That revealed the dearth of life?

Harvest always concludes with a whimper
As flies taste the sweet corn in the last kernel
Contained in a conventional structure - the cob
Nothing remains, but a stain
Like the decay that exists in the light.
Despite the plight of your thought,
We are a vestige of harvest.
We are the cob.

Do you regret leaving
In a time of degeneration
To avoid further deprivation?
Well, the lights still out there, but
Now you're back, here with me

Famine exclusively kills the weak
And bleakly passed over you and me
On our island
You return like a bird after harvest
But you were never gone -
Like a memory