Towers strive for the heavens, basking in the wake of distant sepulchres
And a wind blows,
The trees creak out their soft, distant shatters as leaves clash on leaves,
Branches on branches,
Aching for a jolt of insight, but in their infinite wisdom sie verstehen nicht,
Ich glaube.
To be warm, the roots descend into the asphalt and yawning concrete,
Dry and rigid,
Void of life and worms and rocks and brush and dirt.
Der Sturm ist gekommen.
Ich will meine Lust leben.
Wo zu gehen? Wie zu leben?
The answer lies in the bask of the forest—
Stretching miles and miles through worms and rocks and brush and dirt.
The pavement brings dread.