In these fevered days
I dream to use the waiting.
Westward a pitt-fall prevails
where softly fires are burning.
Laid by the windowpane,
my own interzone,
just watching trees and the leaves as they fall
from the fence to the wall:
it's my dying world!

In a dreamful slumber
I faded to grey
in a state of dismal despair,
eternal mind bounded
began to move
heaving dolorous again
in the year's shortest day.

Twilight enfolds thousand masques of pearl
burnin' slow to ash like my days
and when the living reflection is near
with its crush of emotional waves...
I sleep away

Of that so sweet imprisonment, the days
are fixed on pictures of you,
a shade covers smiles
on some nameless graves,
I lived the dread missin' you
(lookin fade the youth)

It's a winter's tale, the shadowed day
covers the wood with a smell of old hay,
under a reckless sky, across this ragged bound,
resigned to wait in my windshaken house.

I must lie still by my floating images
to legion of sleepers wellknown,
why should I care if a new dawn fades?
Effort of a new day must be drown'd,
no mercy shown!

In dream I fly over a big, golden sea
at the border between fate and waste,
the throng of the angels yet drowned in tears
begin remote music of spheres.
I'm no longer afraid.

Some flabby splashes of too mature things
wake me at the opening new day
but a dreamy voice from the kitchen repeat:
"It's night dear again and again,
it's the year's shortest day"

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