Wintry nights in Spring.
The farmer sits with his icy glass,
His heart lathered with alcohol.
How hard it must be to sleep soundly
Whilst walking on a shattered dream?

Her body lies in there, in there!
The crypt of their foundation for everything.
Everything but a new life.
Her womb is quiet with sorrow, like a graveyard.
At rest along with her spirit are her three children
Never to have explored their minds along with our
Cruel universe that has recently buried a new mound.

It matters not how much he drinks.
His tears can never be fresh rain
For his flower, and her garden by the graves.
The fields outside lay in cryo-sleep, waiting for
A new day of sunlight;
A new day to sustain cities all across the
Cruel universe, and its sick injustice!

And when she stirs, there will be silence.
Lives muffled, my seeds can never grow
In her garden alongside the graves, such fate the
Cruel universe provides us.