Like a cork from a bottle, that's flown too far,

to see clearly now.

Viewed through the veil, of a warped window paine.

Glass of the ancients, swirled with memories.

An ancestor's outlook, On peoples long past.

Chased from their homes,

By orange tongues of shining fire.

Driven East, by conquering gales,

That danced amongst the sparks.

Ever northward, farther South.

But never truly westward.

For westward they did flee,

And Eastward they were turned.

When great smothering clouds of pitiless ash.

Descended upon thus towns of new,

Blanketing whole families,

In knee deep slate gray ash.

Creeping shadows,

Charcoal stains on Memories.

Of all those staring out those warped glass windows,

of ancient lives long past.

Lifeless eyes, blank and solemn.

Searching, Wondering.

Faithless wishes, Full of hope.

To find even the smallest of clue,

Hoping it will tell them,

If still the worst is yet to come.