Again I am undone and stand as dead,
All the ends have frazzled down to a thread.

The waif was there, yet knew not she
was such as that, oh could it be?
To wander this world alone is thought to be free
but humanity, two from one created He,
and one is now but half, alone not free to be human.

And so to wander, to be unmoored but by thine own desire,
is to gape and struggle without half a life.
It is to be homeless.

And so to build a home I ply,
to rescue both she and I.
From all that may seem as though it were,
an ideal world for but half of her.

Where ere she be I have no clue
but cannot so be idle with task so true,
Stretched out ahead so unfinished
and so this word stretched out to you.

The music enters when you pass by
And thus struck within I find I’m shy.