Every night with wounded thoughts spirits die.
Just say goodbye.
Rains will come. Now shoes are pools.
Walking is difficult.
Birds won't arrive because life has run and the sun has gone to the west.
Every night a hurt heart pours its blood down the floor.
With frozen hands in a static sight I took the moon from the sky.
Is there light in darkness?
Is there fog up the mountains?
Is there sweetness in gloom?
This could bring God back to me.
Is there blindness in hopeless?
Is there wish in dead flesh?
Is there sickness enough in me to keep my Lord so far?
