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Description
This time is the winter
The gray-felt mud feeling
The speeding with closed windows
The counting with closed minds
A peculiar sense of irony
Of an ill-forgotten rhyme
In these times
The sun shakes dew
And the moon chills ice
Somewhere it is silent
But you always hear a noise
There’s a brown sense
An earth-toned fidelity
In a caress of wind
That’s too far to see
Rumble rumble
The summer storm’s memory
A last crusader in fiction
Makes the goo of moisture
Evaporate and warm
The figure on the bench
Non-important to wisdom
Would switch the lamp on
If he were but home
But this is the mute
The time of lesser deeds
When they knowingly give
A life
In the gray-time
The final fall from grace

Description
This time is the winter
The gray-felt mud feeling
The speeding with closed windows
The counting with closed minds
A peculiar sense of irony
Of an ill-forgotten rhyme
In these times
The sun shakes dew
And the moon chills ice
Somewhere it is silent
But you always hear a noise
There’s a brown sense
An earth-toned fidelity
In a caress of wind
That’s too far to see
Rumble rumble
The summer storm’s memory
A last crusader in fiction
Makes the goo of moisture
Evaporate and warm
The figure on the bench
Non-important to wisdom
Would switch the lamp on
If he were but home
But this is the mute
The time of lesser deeds
When they knowingly give
A life
In the gray-time
The final fall from grace