Our sleep is not disturbed by the cries of the tortured,
nor does our small talk touch on the cries of the tortured.

You do not find in the wailing of our song
not even a little bit, the cries of the tortured.

Do any of those there, not prisoners,
go home and recollect the cries of the tortured?

Yet now in ev'ry trill of the Mardi Gras
i only hear, despairing, the cries of the tortured.

dark car glinting silver & gold
the sun behind it silver & gold

a mother & 2 kids fall off an overpass
gorgeous morning at Starbucks silver & gold

in a dream returning only to say
will not be returning silver & gold

"The Questioner of the Sphinx" by Elihu Vedder
(via wood_s lot)