Theres a place I like to gonI like to be alone when therenare birds and it is coldnthe grass is green and the trees soundnlike stories of timesnthat I don't want (?) showsnand there was skyn(?) unsoundnnAnd there was lifenchildren playing with marblesnone sits upon a statuenas faces are designednlooking forward, back, and at mena language I don't knownit makes me want what I can't havena place in this pondncould it be when they die?