It is March and black dust falls out of the books
Soon I will be gone
The tall spirit who lodged here has
Left already
On the avenues the colorless thread lies under
Old pricesWhen you look back there is always the past
Even when it has vanished
But when you look forward
With your ***** knuckles and the wingless
Bird on your shoulder
What can you writeThe bitterness is still rising in the old mines
The fist is coming out of the egg
The thermometers out of the mouths of the corpsesAt a certain height
The tails of the kites for a moment are
Covered with footstepsWhatever I have to do has not yet begun
Soon I will be gone
The tall spirit who lodged here has
Left already
On the avenues the colorless thread lies under
Old pricesWhen you look back there is always the past
Even when it has vanished
But when you look forward
With your ***** knuckles and the wingless
Bird on your shoulder
What can you writeThe bitterness is still rising in the old mines
The fist is coming out of the egg
The thermometers out of the mouths of the corpsesAt a certain height
The tails of the kites for a moment are
Covered with footstepsWhatever I have to do has not yet begun
