Midnight Sunday,
at the blue house on the big green hill,
making shadow of small dwarfs,
and inside Navi sleeps,
coming down with the satellites.
He'll be up before the dawn again,
dig up the roads,
see what's underneath,
then put them back.
It gives him time to think of what the big green world was like,
before they'd had enough of each other's love.
Aria was
made in the big blue skies,
proof of God,
divine.
One Navi blasted through the streets in high-vision dry eyes.
In their minds, they were movie stars,
turned up for work two weeks too late,
and they never
noticed when he left.
Now Navi sits, double-parted with Guinness,
speaking to the toucans on the wall.
We have every right to be nervous,
but it's not much use.
The truth is always one step ahead,
hiding itself away in the nightmares of tomorrow,
waiting with a grin to be discovered before
turning hill and vanishing again beyond the
horizon.
We have only ourselves to blame,
but today is Sunday,
and there's no need to dig the roads.
The Navi sleeps.
The city dreams.
Of his Aria.
Of his Aria.