Wait,

When the weary men in the skeletal park
Play their old downpour,
we shall look for the sun to bid our sins
                 A sincere hello we’d forgotten.

Wash your hand before you wave it,
                                 and now look up.

I remember how the fingers of the tree there
                                Used to drown along
                                In the lake above the park
                                For you alone.

They were catching dreams,
              don't worry.

And you remember how those fingers
                            Used to draw red line
                            In the lake beneath the park
                            Do you not?

They were waiting for dreams,
              don't worry.

But yesterday,
       You cheered for their departure;

And today,
       You weep for their absence.

And finally the next,
       You seek for their replacement;

       drifting all the way
       To the lake beneath the park.

Let me just tell you a thing loud and clear:
       If you ever want to dig alone to the bottom of the lake;
       Just remember,

      that whenever I slumber in this puddle that lacks of blood
      The moon on the lake above followed me always to bed
      And as I lie, looking up for the sun
      It simply slandered my confounded elegy.

That is why in this skeletal park of streams and wires
I keep trying to tip my hat and bid farewell
         Till the sun eventually goes down and sleep next to me
         So that along with my smile, it would lastly grin my sins

But what if my fingers drowned all along in tipping my sins?
                                                 What would the lake have for me,
           and what would the men play above the grinning sun?

                                I wonder if all the sea was all a scene
                               They played during my silent ******.
                                I wonder if all the scene was all a sin
                                The sun conjured between my fingers.

But what if my fingers drowned all along in bidding farewell?
                   Just forget what I said, and don't take it to the heart.
                   They were not looking for light, anyway.
                   They were looking for you.

That is why I want you to speak of hands
                              And count fingers instead of hope;
                              so that you would
                              Come and get mine
                              Along the red lines
                              of sinful ****** scene
                              In the lake beneath this skeletal park.