Fill me.

Missing life. Empty streets. Cold hearts.

Covering your face what you once criticised on stranger's faces.


Missing love. Empty hearts. Cold air.

Covering the flowers in your heart, the strings of my guitar.


Missing music. Empty stages. Cold rooms.

Covered ears, listening to scary news, not to music anymore.


Missing passion. Empty beds. Cold skin.

Covering all lust with distance, covering the pulsating feelings in you.


Missing flow. Empty joints. Cold smoke.

Covering all the sins, getting confession from your government.


Missing freedom. Empty trains. Cold words.

Covered rebels, flags lie down, closed borders, no resistance.


copyright by Magical Whispers/I. Normann, 3/4/2020


◄ Fever of silence

Palm Sunday ►


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