On a cold evening I give my regards,
I stand in snow next to the tomb.
Lying under a spruce tree and those stars,
As the one who shines, in this world is doomed
For those who have wisdom,
Will be killed by those who have none
Through the porticos of life, I caress the memory.
The feel of loss has passed as I stare the grave of a poet.
Forms of art as variation of immortality.
The feel of loss has passed as I stare the grave of a poet.
I can leave, turn my head, turn my back and still I hear,
Still I know, still I feel those touching words.
Absurd to claim there is nothing after here,
Denial of vision makes your own life blurred.
For those who have wisdom,
Will be killed by those who have none
Through the porticos of life, I caress the memory.
The feel of loss has passed as I stare the grave of a poet.
Forms of art as variation of immortality.
The feel of loss has passed as I stare the grave of a poet.
