I choke on feelings, then just stop
existing for a little while
and half-dead, suddenly, I drop,
devoured by the minutes vile
that lead me to my gruesome fate,
thus written by your hand, dear Love,
with ink of sorrow, without hate
yet soullessly - up in the sky above.

I stand there in the starless night,
discussing with the rainy storm -
Will I expire out of sight,
or maybe craters I will form,
when all these feelings ill suppressed,
a little ugly and a little stale,
explode and fall out of their nest
turning into a vicious gale?

And in its anger will it then,
begin to rage upon the earth,
or simply choose your face /so zen/
and you - who started his rebirth,
who after stepping on my heart,
squashing it like a nasty bug,
then tore my breathless soul apart,
and drank my essence from a mug?