It is morning
As I lie in my death bed
And the bird outside
Are singing songs
Which remind me
Of something or another
Sometime or another
Long-lost now.

It is morning
As I moan in my agony
And the rain outside
Is beating down
Like my fists
When they beat my chest
When I sing and dance
In a sense.

It is morning
As I stare at the insides
Of pale eyelids
And everything is cold
And the prospect of life
Is as chilling as the grave
And something says
That I am sad.