It’s snowing
on the fields where
we walked.
There is an umbrella
made of night,
I swirl it, I swirl it
through the clouds
and a wound opens
as fresh as the blood
pumping from the fist
of my heart.
It’s snowing
on the fields where
we walked.
There is an umbrella
made of night,
I swirl it, I swirl it
through the clouds
and a wound opens
as fresh as the blood
pumping from the fist
of my heart.