to bring my warmth and love into this time of need
just these small hands so bare and cold and few
the hands unable still to conquer or to feed
i cannot bring you land n'or wisdom i'm too weak
so judging me by deeds or words would be the same
i am too young to fight and maybe even speak
the only thing to laugh about would be my game
this silly borrowed game time has no wish to play
a game of funny voices and shiny words to fade
no match for such a wound which deepens by the day
no cure for such a sorrow so it shall bring no aid
all that my limbs can lift are burdens off the heart
i only shorten nights for i have more to lose
it might come very soon the day we'll grow apart
but until then you show me the color of your bruise
now put my pen away and burn this foolish line
but lay your head on this left shoulder yet to grow
and in this night we have make all your sorrows mine
i may not understand but i will surely know
and maybe years to pass deep burriend in the clay
i'll find my pen and write the stroies you once said
thus keeping you alive my long unpractised way
before i go to rest forever with the dead
tot Ancăi.
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