The weather has the smell
Of tears in the air
And there is an empty
Sound breathing in the wind
The sea is singing of melancholy
And the birds are swimming
With maladies
The clouds with lines of silver
Have been poisoned by lead
And the hands of death are busy
Collecting all the bees
Time is borrowing from itself
And its bank account
Is nearly bare
The fairy tale of man ends in suicide
And the moon is cheering for our end