And in the end, we’re still revolving.
The planets are still spinning.
The people are still yearning.
What can we make of the constant struggle?
Is anything worth lusting, wishing for at all?
Maybe not here, maybe not in our solar system.
Or maybe, we can only think of what lies around us.
What we cherish, but never remember.
In the end, we’re still revolving.
What can we do besides what we’re doing now?
Things get unbearable, things get lonely.
But we’re still revolving.
After two hundred thousand years
After eighty years
We’re still revolving.
Things will be okay.