you suffer,
and so, you learn-
talk about stars and lovers,
through scars, and
how they don't burn anymore

dreaming eyes,
dream about the dreadful lies;

the man in the sky,
isn't here sitting besides you-

the woman you pry;
maybe she's slick and sly,
it makes you sick,
and you wonder why ?

maybe it isn't about
love anymore.


the world has summer,
and it had your winter-

autumn withers'
spring too;

and the man in the sky,
he isn't sitting there anymore

the child you could see
in the mirror, died;

he's no more, maybe-
only as much as you are today;

and the bird you
could've freed;

you placed silence by
its side, and a song
on it's beak, so bleak-

bleached by the solemn
good-bye, and a seed,

praying, it becomes a tree,
and not a storm.