on a yellow morning
on a morning like this
when my room is dead, the window a blind eye only
the clothes just laid out on top are very tired
and the pen is dull, short
the handprint is flimsy
so often I deceived myself
too often everyone else
too often I considered life as a cheap birth gift
Say:
now the snow covers the place, That bird
waddles in the stream
the village is quietly crumbling
around the churchyard
the wind blows through the corridors
through the coat to the skin
he leans his head in search of the strength of the powerless
dry leaves, unread
underneath is decaying
when I walk through my emptiness
the empty city
letters so messed up they think they are words
just because of that fact they are
in the song of the scrolls
Repeat 2x

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