I once wrote some poems of stillness and silence, Standing by rivers of reflected light; My thoughts were on being loved and yet unloved, too - I surrendered to the warmth of the night. And now I feel like dying, And if the water were still here, It would hold me close. I once wrote a poem while walking on gravestones, As cobbles, rain and tears lashed down my face; I then felt my whole world was fading As memories jostled and fell into place. And now I feel like dying, And the pain of old fires still burns. I never wrote poems when I bit my knuckles And Death started slipping into my mouth... But that was really a long time ago, And I'm not writing poems now. And though I don't feel quite like dying, There is something deep inside me Softly crying. And though I don't feel quite like dying There is something deep inside me softly...