Saturday, 3 April 2010


The night sang me a song,
a deep, beautiful ballad.
It oozed over in the cold, darkness:
warm, sweet honey on my skin...

It cut me deep and made me cry,
banadging me with bed sheets,
still singing in the cold, darkness,
kissing the wounds it made.

Too sad, too sweet, too soon,
sunrise silenced that sweet song;
it faded as the darkness fled,
scared off by the morning's roaring light.

The cold, dark night came back again,
and again, and again, and again,
but the music never returned;
the sad, sweet song is gone.

Now the night tells me jokes instead,
many pointless, cruel jokes
whose punch lines I've forgotten,
the humour subtly mocking me.

And shovels full of cold dark night
slowly cover up that memory.
(...honey on my skin, in the cold, dark night,
warm,sweet honey on my skin...)

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