The sky used to be a sheet of paper,
the birds were signs I used to translate -
there was a magic hovering in every summer evening
evoking ink - I let my pen ... sink ...

There was a way of speaking truth
that wasn't good, that wasn't true,
the pursuit of a life-lie carrying me ... to sink ...

I think I sound too old for my own best
the youth should be full of success
but there is ink in my chest enought to make me sink;
dear mother, read me one more story
I cannot sleep ... I can not sink ...