- cifra
There's a ghost
A ghost in the mezzanine
And she's soaked
Soaked in a glimmering
Sort of bone
Her bones and I'm blathering
For to count all her freckles
To kiss her bare ankles
The breath of the bread while it bakes
How I ache
I ache in the pit of me
I awake, awake with this fear in me
How it makes, makes a fool out of me
With its knife, how it carves
The seeds out of my heart
For to plant in the soil for to feast
You are sweet
Sweet as a nectarine
When you speak
Speak softly and gracefully
Oh to meet you could quite possibly
Be the death of my dread
And the songs in my head
Would at last find their place and be sung
