At the very end of the road
Leading up to the top of the hill
There is a solitary wooden bench
Washed out and baked in the sun

Rough wood with veins protruding
Feels strange to the touch
But quite comfortable
Once you are there tired from the climb

The vast land was covered with a mist
With trees peeking through
Here and there like spears
Tearing up a veil

A light breeze was flowing
Rattling leaves all around
Whisphering nonsense
To nodding flowers

Yes, I was
I was alone
Just like way back then...
And... thats the way it is going to be.