A numeral function has ripped off my kite;
How blunt was the knife on that sullen night.
The way I have spoken had no meaning to the tribe,
Now my dream is to be strong like a stone that doesn't cry.
The tent of the heart has no place for the tears,
There's no way to get out of the cage that has fear;
The key had been hanged on the neck of a deer
That lives far away from this forest of the bears.
The core of the apple has turned black in these years;
The mushrooms have stopped hearing sounds of the deers
That could ring the keys near to the ears,
And the birds have stopped singing the songs of cheer.
All that's been seen is the old thread that only tries...