And the morning pigeons come
My bubble throated companions
And pick from the windowsill
All the crumbs

Oh there is nothing in my brain
phantoms dreams a waking raving
which is blown away by the opening of the book

Once more the wine glasses are dirty
the blood red wine still kisses them
but it is we who have memories and swoon

Black long round disappearing into a warm abyss
a hint of leather
desire to be soft with a prickly crown

Long ago a sunset seen from a beach through misty smog
the terrible beauty of this our world
words like fortresses

Oh the terrible beauty of this our world

All praise my empty heart