Forward through time, backwards through space,
round and round, still I have no place.

Moving, stopping, seeking a thrill,
or some kind of message that isn't a bill.

All of these people to me have no face,
as they all go 'bout the great human race.

No need for love, no need for kindness,
only in green do they see any rightness.

They move across town with purpose and will,
while I'm left to grind and stew in the mill.

Deep in my mind they're all struck with blindness,
as I return to my precious wildness.