It was in the May of the Summer
I turned seventeen
I bought all that cancer I thought I'd need
And I stitched the prettiest words together
They already belonged to you
The dead living and living dead
They just make you wonder
The dead living and living dead
That sad insipid hunger
Well become a bird and I will find shelter in the reeds
The ants crawl up your soul
But you just think it's better this way
So please forgive what I have done
Because you stay mad at the setting sun
Because we all get tired
I mean eventually
There is nothing left to do but sleep
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Sleep is the greatest gift of the Creator!