The rustling of the leaves,
who could it be?
Is it our silent inevitable fate,
creeping as it weeps?
I grab the bridal to my steed,
riding alone without a place to be.
The wind howls so desolately,
oh why must it be me,
who asks so desperately?
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
The rustling of the leaves,
who could it be?
Is it our silent inevitable fate,
creeping as it weeps?
I grab the bridal to my steed,
riding alone without a place to be.
The wind howls so desolately,
oh why must it be me,
who asks so desperately?
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