Keep track, my Magellan,
write this conversation down.
Go back to our homeland,
write this conversation down.
Some of us are restless
in the winter,
for the lack of time,
for the darker nights.
Turn back, my Magellan,
and please record this final sound.
Old lands unsuspecting
please record this final sound.
Some of us are listening
at the shoreline,
to the gap in time,
to the sound of flight.
Postcards, open letters,
tell our families we have gone.
Flashback, fading quickly,
take these words into the dawn.
Some of us are waiting,
but it won't be long
till all the maps are wrong,
‘cause our land is gone.
