The melancholy night
Sings a tuneless lullaby,
in cacophony almost.
The madman crosses to the other side,
And whispers grave forebodings
To the dreams of tomorrow.
The man with swaying steps
Lingers for a while, in memory of an unfaithful mistress.
And in the cold, dark crescendo,
She stands forlorn,
Her bright lipstick pouring over
Like red wine from a spout,
While she waits for her man
In tainted solitude.
In the draught of her being that she has poured for him,
Shall she seek the jingle of coins at dawn.
For the life that is this death,
In the echoes of this silence,
Mankind shall rise
Like a phoenix.
With the morning Sun,
As we bow our heads in solemn prayer,
There shall be truth,