A simple place would come a holy place,
With reverent words we come to you,
The Lord of all our gratitudes, our joys,
With weary heads so low and yet,
You lift our sights in hope to ever-things.

Sedentary within the folds chairs,
Encasing sprawling chasing thoughts,
The smoking trail of ink makes ware,
The sharpened sight and pupils taut,
Recoiling at the sharpest proof,
Descending on the droves of pretty pictures dressed in symbols.

I see so many faces,
Walking with me through the days,
Talking with me through the hours,
Cracking codes and solving puzzles,
Telling of their hopes and dreams,
Walking through the little things,
Then to run for on time trains,
Just to laugh between the breaths,
Of smoking air in busy streets,
This land that I am found within,
These days that mark my childhood.