The air around is sick of strident silence
But I stand with no more than empty hands.
The trees, with their stooping canopies,
Look at me and pry with hope, like the intrusive aunt,
And I respond with shrugged shoulders and rolling eyes.
I'm sorry I'm out of wits,
Just like they're out of leaves.
Both waiting for our springs to breeze in.
But I stand with no more than empty hands.
The trees, with their stooping canopies,
Look at me and pry with hope, like the intrusive aunt,
And I respond with shrugged shoulders and rolling eyes.
I'm sorry I'm out of wits,
Just like they're out of leaves.
Both waiting for our springs to breeze in.
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