Life crawls from the past, watching in wonder
I trace its patterns in me....
Tomorrow's tomorrow is birth again/
Boats burn the bridge in the fens/
The time of the past returns to my life
and uses it.

Don't blame me for the letters that may form in the sand;
don't look in my eyes, you may see all the numbers
that stretch in my sky and colour my hand...
Don't say that I'm wrong in imagining
that the voice of my life cannot sing!
Fate enters and talks in old words:
They amuse it.

Hands shine darkly and white: only in dark do they appear.
Bless the baby born today,
flying in pitch, flying on fear!
(Wicked little Scorpio, doomed to die a thousand times
before he lives!)
They shine in my eyes and touch my face
where I have seen them placed before...
don't blame me, please, for the fate that falls:
I did not choose it.
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