In the wind the rusting swing
creaks slowly. The sky winks with distant constellations.
To her lonely brother,
Life was meaningless dust,
floating through the empty universe in waves.
He rests his arm on the sill, peering out the window.

Later, a girl cleans the window.
She can clearly see the swing
in the yard. It moves back and forth like waves.
The trees around it make constellations
with their shadows. She had been forced to remove the dust.
The boy who lived in this room was her useless brother.

That boy who was her brother
Had no energy to work. He only wished to stare out a window.
He didn't mind glaring at dust.
She would go out and sway on the swing,
But he would only study the constellations,
Connecting history to the stars like waves.

Rocks were always getting tossed around in waves.
She couldn't collect rocks like her brother.
He used the rocks to outline constellations,
the ones he saw from the dirty window,
like the stars looming above the squeaky swing,
pictures seen through the layer of dust.

She couldn't clean the dust.
It would come back like unsettling waves.
She couldn't bring the swing
through the glass for her brother.
He wouldn't mind looking through the window
still covered with grime. He was searching for constellations.

They weren't hard to find, constellations.
It was just like finding dust
in the air, or on a window.
They were the dark sky's waves.
In a way the stars were her brother.
For he wasn't hard to find. He was always in line with the swing.

He was a constellation, creating memories like breaking waves.
He didn’t mind the dust, an abandoned brother.
His company was the window. The swing.