It’s aside the fact in the face of glory,
That the weather seems nice,
And the feathers fall swiftly to the shore.
The death of a nation,
And the winters are cold here.
Oh dearest dying within me,
Shall we wait to see the sunset,
Beneath the ocean and receding sea?
A draft to the left,
Is all but inside me,
And the feathered walkers in the day do cry.
Do you hear me in the night?
All but those which decide me?
The places in the walls of aforementioned solace in this dream?
Don’t shame walking in the sky,
Don’t cry in the meaning of the word,
For the oceans are but to begin on Friday.