The morning light is creeping unto my window sill,
it was warm and sweet, but agony in its rising from the ground.
summer doesn't stain me any shade of pink,
I remain a pallid white of cadaverousness.

the birds sing their birdsong to any ear that listens,
but as the flowers fall from trees, ears a lended elsewhere.
towards the monetary dictator, a tyrant in its blood,
we disregard the flowers our snow it comes as floods.

the birth of warmth it boils, swelters in God's midst,
a year is marked, and death - will give their graceful Kiss.