The morning of February

He never had any fully satisfied.

A small man,modest lonely.
Do not know their way chosen,
what tomorrow may bring.
One of the life out of the drink,
second life to making music,
ringing notes of cracked,
or beer glass drowned.
Tuonetar, the ruler of death
corrected already out
the time the victim
of a grove of trees slept.
I see around the fragile
world disasters in the legs
mourning the shattered fragments
consume.

And the voice the night sounds,
as of February get icy.
It is often too stubborn,
he can break the
only my tears.
They invertebrates in the world
take over, the snow-filled streets.
Get lost in the snow in Joensuu,
and Helsinki,
my mind in my field,
is like a full chest of drawers.

Joensuu is somewhere out there,
where racism is on the road.
After two weeks,
maybe I wake up in the spring,
Now thoughts stale,
the morning of the poem do to you.