In my room, a cricket sings his heavy heart.
Outside, his million brothers, star-drunk beneath a lemon tree.
Why these walls? Why his song? Why my clocks, taken apart?
In my room, a cricket sings his heavy heart.
Why alleys? Why walkways? Why my brushes sick from art?
Why my open window and the summer drowsing carelessly?
In my room, a cricket sings his heavy heart.
Outside, his million brothers, star-drunk beneath a lemon tree.