In the dusky primitive kitchen,
I sat beside the old window.
Mourning, quavering, under the cooling moonlight and savouring the river of Wine singing,
'I've been mistreated, don't mind dying.'

And for a moment
It felt like a spectre was emerging
From that scarlet pool
Which glistened navy in the night.

The flimsy shadow, laden with gray,
Like the smoke that spews from the chimneys, whistled.
Then I saw that it was me, but a lost
Soul that had succumbed to the debris.

The vinyl player whined:
'People tell me walkin' blues ain't bad'
But there was nothing I could do but be sad and lament the love we had.

I looked into the mirror of Life
And saw fire blistering, where peace should be.
Horns growing, where flowers should
Gleam.
The storm that was brewing benighted me.

If I had hanged on...
If I had stayed strong-
Perhaps you would be here singing with me
Instead of our hearts throbbing with
Agony.

So our boats must beat on
Sail away with the wind; against the Deep Blue
Our paths crossed and now no longer belong to the quixotic future we were enfettered to.

'People tell me the old walkin' blues ain't bad'
But I was just a ghost, in a dusky, primitive kitchen,
Sitting against the shut window, mad;
'Well it's the worst old feeling Lord-
I most ever had.'