The cold day of Sunday Eve.
The warm sun on Saturday.
Auf Bäumen wachen trauernd Weise,
der Rabe, ein Fink und ‘ne Meise.
La nuit et la mer parle sur le soleil.
Nous sommes des gens avec (un) œil.
Я восхваляю этот день.
Так как он найдет конец.
I hope the words made some sense, for I am not good with words.
Or too good, that I completely forget what pain they gave me.
Other than being quiet, at least with those who wouldn’t want neither my words nor my presence, if not met with their words or ways. Lost in the ways of others, I forgot whether mine was real or a lie from the beginning on.
Only to find it real, but unwanted, while wished for.
Wished from those who think I am going the wrong way.
Hated by those who think they already have it.
Feared by everyone else.
Embraced by myself, embraced by death.