Again, the sky is crying

Showers grate down
the November sky.
I'm flying, cold,
I'm on a lap of the air ship.
Where is the man who,
is not afraid of a woman with a
say in their possession.

Here in red
clothes alone on the pad.
Note: The kind of happiness, only sorrow
prey, I can not hide
never say the yen.
Again, the sky is crying, sleet
grate on my face to the ground.
I will never be able to pay
this high price,
which my bosom grate.
I'll never get
a match fire burning.

It's always the flame goes out
as quickly, too
soon run out of matches.
I secretly always a man
I love poetry book
longing often write.
The new law will draw up the Parliament,
and falls from the sky racking
sleet. I was turning in circles,
which is the head, and where he was.