| These rooftops all silent
|
| The lone light of Foxen
|
| My remains wide open
|
| Before the still waters
|
| A moment to admire
|
| The sleeping with no memory
|
| We’re writers, all of us
|
| Deep in the world’s listening
|
| Every night I see
|
| The «once upon a time» life greeting me
|
| But you can’t buy me back with a memory
|
| With your brazen summer sun
|
| Every night I sound
|
| My low «I hope your world is kind»
|
| Over the scape that fills the night
|
| Something fair sleeps in your world
|
| The rooftops, all sleeping
|
| Underneath them brittle little man-things
|
| Unveiled clowns, false kings
|
| Every moment; |
| the world in writing
|
| The horizon in blazing
|
| As another library burns down
|
| Soon the morning comes and into my heart’s night
|
| Infinity enters
|
| Every night I see
|
| The «once upon a time» life greeting me
|
| But you can’t buy me back with a memory
|
| With your brazen summer sun
|
| Every night I sound
|
| My low «I hope your world is kind»
|
| Over the scape that fills the night
|
| Something fair sleeps in your world
|
| Auri in the night
|
| Sighs «I hope your world is kind»
|
| As the dawn comes and by her side
|
| He sits down and starts to play
|
| Every night I sound
|
| My low «I hope your world is kind»
|
| Over the scape that fills the night
|
| Something fair sleeps in your world |