The black-streak, bag-eyed husbands move waiting to be widowed by the passing of familiar skies and all we've come to know our shadows have my sympathy for they must never wish to be joined beneath, unwilling our endless, restless feet
so praise be the break of day when we run out of things to say we'll learn to speak in different ways and plea with cities to be breathing for beauty made them bend and sway we'll learn to speak in different ways
our list's caught frozen in a streetlight our indecision rides atop the crow it burned out, blackened, turned to ash and blew away to embers far to bright to see and not there enough to weighTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
