Sometimes, before the morrow comes, I see blackness move on the mountain tops. I see shadow ropes hanging On the windows of my house, And their dark blue lines move slowly, Like the hands of a clock. I hear owls singing blues and rock, Leaves falling on the ground, And other things I hear in the moonstruck.
Sometimes, before the morrow comes, My feet, they tempt me out. My soul begs me to shout, Howl like a wolf, Wait for others to howl back, Howl all together at the same time. Run, frenetically, till out of breath, Rest on a tree, And feel the silence Breaking into us, Beating in our veins, As adrenaline fades away.
Sometimes, I want to go out And see for myself The world beyond my house.