A sad song.


Well I swore that at seven on Sunday
I’d say I was sorry to Solomonia.
But she met me at four,
And she came to my door
With her eyes on the floor
And her lips in her pocket,
So to make me to see:
They were taken from me.

I said, “Hey now, what’s that in your hand?
“I do not understand, oh, and
“How did you get it?
“You know I never let it go out on its own and
“It’s always alone,
“And I always regret it.
“Shall I have one at all?
“It’s the fruit of the fall.”

Now, days, they have driven me on,
But you smell of the dawn to me, Solomonia.
And you taste of the apples that offer the rain.
Oh, to have them remain, oh,
To have them remain.

Now some birds are better unknown, and
The light makes them lonely, O Solomonia.
You are drenched in the depth of opacity’s claim
It will drip from your name,
It will fall from your window.
It will grow as a rose at the root of your hair.
It’s the right of the fair. It’s
The right of the fair.

Oh, but if I had stayed at the gate,
Would it still be too late for you, Solomonia?
There are days I awake with the eye of my mind
In the curve of your spine, in
The curve of your spine.

So why do you stand in my door?
Don’t you do that no more to me, Solomonia.
Take the weight of your ways from my stumbling mind.
I will pay you in kind.
I will wash you in verses.
Then I’ll never have opened the apple at all.
It’s the fruit of the fall.
It’s the fruit of the fall.

And I swore ..