When I am older and my brain bleeds loss,
I will look for a glass under the autumn leaves.
When I am older and my heart leaks guilt,
I will cherish the hope that I have in the trees.
Once, I was older, and I used to bake souls,
in four walls of ash and of morning oats.
Once, I was older, and it was sweet like vanilla,
in a world which was so absent of hope.