Do I just feel, my empty sleighs of night?
Or are they sharpened by me hushed up slaves?
Surrounded by hazardous waste of right,
I'm lying on my heavy-footed graves.
The barren land, at first to be soaked through,
Of being at the mercy snivel lings,
Now tells my darkening fairy tales to you,
Of myself killing cropper-crossing wings.
The question seems to be: What's in the end?
Is there some paradise to get caught for?
But therefore it, to hedge my bet once more,
Looks to be best to enter a convent.
Moreover, in the end my end means – nothing,
And this is why, again, I don't stop – sloughing.
Or are they sharpened by me hushed up slaves?
Surrounded by hazardous waste of right,
I'm lying on my heavy-footed graves.
The barren land, at first to be soaked through,
Of being at the mercy snivel lings,
Now tells my darkening fairy tales to you,
Of myself killing cropper-crossing wings.
The question seems to be: What's in the end?
Is there some paradise to get caught for?
But therefore it, to hedge my bet once more,
Looks to be best to enter a convent.
Moreover, in the end my end means – nothing,
And this is why, again, I don't stop – sloughing.