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.
