The midnight music of the elderly and infantile, the strong and tired from working the mills, just across the field, over the lake, through the woods. Your sweet words, your sweetheart and her pretty slender nose, once my beloved didn't love me back, but now she does, chased her, now she chases me. Angry bees in her hair, cries with a smile that God gave me, ravens in the rain, each face among the pine glades. You are on the outside of my lamp-lit abyss gazing in, watching death's round dance I am in, the singing and laughing, holding hands, the rich and powerful kings of the earth, the poor beggars, all shall join me whether begrudgingly or gleefully. Your mother, your father, in the round dance, Mr. Drozdov and his old cigar shop, no more rattle of dead leaves in his chest, now all he does is dance. The beautiful and unsavory, best to beg God, love God, perhaps he'll pity you all, if not it'll be hell's flames that await, death is alone and conquers all. It can feel lost and not far from love, wait and see, the hawk and dove are with me.
It's a new day, I'll visit each estate, the emerald eye-like sun has risen and the hearts of the young are full of misery, best to think of it as pretty. A fierce meadowlark, the wild beasts asleep among the drowsy daisies in the forest waves of pristine bark. The ink trees, my emblematic breeze, I am with you everywhere, I am with you completely.