An aging piece of flesh and bone
Blackened from the head to sole
A teacher of his friends and foe
A boy without a home
Castles made from sand not stone
A hand that's made of glass not bone
The juvenile sound of words
Crumble in his hands
Sound out the writing on the wall
And bow down the two of them are one
Don't try now to even up the line
Without the boy listening to what she wrote
I see your face in a maze of light
And the stars shine bright tonight
But I hear a voice in the dead of night
