I can hear you, love, from the contour of that dusk
Do your pretty mental laces still arrest you in the social typecast,
Or have you now tricked your mind into believing, what you must?
Do your mountains still rise in the tragic gloomy nights?
Or your flowers now do not seek that honey-soaked might.
Has your Harley now stopped seeking its Joker?
Or does that wisdom tooth ever tell you, get up and fight!
Oh, tell me the wind still blows in the same direction,
That the lighthouse hasn’t frozen to death!
Let it once again swift pass those shores,
Catch the soul that hasn’t succumbed to its last breath!