Ode to January

The atmosphere is stale

and the pain nerves pounds

the muscles of the strands stick

does not help the pain

none of the drug is not even red wine.

For the first time I

I think gloomy thoughts

a wide one phrase.

When the morning comes mutilated

helplessly scratching their heads.

Do they think that they

is a matchstick fingers

in sulfur and scratching

fingertips kindle a fire.

I to the world of liver

my own taxes, and the old

time model in the summer collect

a heaped spoonful of wild strawberry container.

Oh, arrive here in spring

for a moment you were the only good friend.

I am in shock from the kicks

life, still, I will still be here

your troops will fight.

January winds scents

carefully sniffed.

The moment yet and February Ice Pearl

hung on the neck of the Queen of winter

I wind ravaged the fascia board

stick back to the local nail.

In March it tastes willow cats

yesteryears, and the willow flute remember

Yesteryears childhood garden paths.

I blew my mind again

willow whistle, and I remember childhood

tunes the notes model.

Oh too familiar with Mana's son

do no longer near me in my minor-key

call melodies. Do not lift the scythe

shock death, for I have

too dry source of tears.

I can not cry anymore, I do not mourn

the remaining life for me

longer than the old dried food residue.