The Question Is: Testo

May gifts,Mood shifts
Trees bloom
Buds burst soon.
Dry wood
burning
The smell of spring.
My own
unknown
something in the wind.
The moon rolling down the roof,
a bit aloof.
The spell of spring.
I still have a crush on him.
It´s not making any sense.
April lost her audience.
What became of poetry, you and me in harmony.
It´s not making any sense.
May´s delayed when you´re away.
What became of our punctual, sensual everyday.
This town
awakes.
Clear blue morning dew.
Rise sun
white swan.
My heart´s white guard.
The moon rolling down the roof...