Onto the winter’s moor, time dropped
Around the ruthless wall, opera caressed
Hark! Whose horn is in play?
When homer’s heroes were to fly?
To be or not to be
How did a soul tend to be touched?
Birds rest in the dry nest
The night falls without sound
When first beam shining on the dew
Morning awaken, you beam at me
In the mirror a grey spirit reflected
At the gate of Heaven Angels await.
