1
It starts with the cold sound of a windy landscape,
Then the crushing noise of dry stepped leaves –
It’s these boots I have, they weight heavy on my bones –
At last, comes a small and simple monologue, and my life
begins:
“I’d like to speak,
But you know what I would say,
And I would know you would.
But still we speak.”
And this is the rate things go right now –
I offer my voice to sing, but suddendly forget the lyrics;
I offer myself for company, but suddendly I’ve nothing to
say.
I would speak, but I got lost in the castles that decorate
my mind.
2
It later goes on with the sound of things as they sound
like,
And once more I’m in my biographical paranoia.
Was I heartbroken and I would’ve shouted a million times,
But my mind rests when my heart is full.
When was the last I spoke in these manners?
When was the last I even knew what to say?
Well, it doesn’t matter here in the frozen sunny sky of
Denmark,
For here I’m yet to have a story to tell.
3
The silence cracks the same way glass would scratch
And once more I have held my body in the nothingness I said.
So eventually, the cold sound of a windy landscape
Hits the stage of the little atenttion we pay.
And then my monologue.
Until my mind asks questions.
And once more I say nothing.
Maybe one day I’ll learn how to speak.
