Silence drawing a crowd
Surely you would have known
Never could have read it aloud
Woven webs cover the walls
Wine stains on the floor
Of the Oslo novelist now
Come tomorrow this will all be gone
Finally nothing to say
More empty words on the page
Pour a glass all the ribbons are dry
Raise a toast for the novelist tonight
Sun down fell, starting to wake
Tragedy at a time
Getting later earlier every day
Words in lines and I
Can't decide, how to make this end any other way
Come tomorrow this will all be gone
Finally nothing to say
More empty words on the page
Pour a glass all the ribbons are dry
Raise a toast for the novelist tonight
Come tomorrow this will all be gone

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