If you meet my eyes, My bruised-plum-like eyes, Can you paint them blue? So I remember those far skies They’ll eventually become Hard and dry as a brick　 In through the myriad of craquelures Streams a faint light of tomorrow’s sun, Wet a little, clad in morning mist It’s entangled wool of a ray You softly unravel it away, Weaving a bird I’ve missed And drawing winds in fine gold spun His tiny wings, clear and pure To sweep the air, gone thick, To waken me, fallen numb I’m trying to recall your voice Yet it’s all been lessened I can’t tell if it’s too silent here Or by the noise I‘m deafened Pray to the silver moon Made of aluminium She’s like me full of mends of broken sherds Falling is your voice, soft and innocent, On my seams of wounds in a mess It comes seeping into my heart And gently makes them fall apart, Leaving my core defenceless, Suffusing my each filament With a handful of tender words, So free from all odium And quietly cures me soon