Canvas of coffee, the very flavor I crave to tasteLonging, my languid lips dare to quench a desert so drySoot, such soft ashes,
but empty in my hands to harborWhen did the night slip so suddenly into silk?
Umber, as of earth, stained glass windows; the soul’s windowThe soul’s window; intense is the stare of which they watchDo they watch me?
No, I think notI think not; the canvas, the soot, the umberThey do not belong to me; not now, not everOh, how I covet the beloved of inamorataInamorata, inamorata, you are beataBeata,
no, not Maria, but you inamorata; inamorata,Faceless,
nameless maiden only brings me future mayhemI will watch from my own window; the soul’s windowThe soul’s window; a candle’s wick not litThere is no light,
no candle or matches; just fearJust fear; has it always been so dark here? Here in this home?
No, not always; in this home, there once was lightThe canvas, the soot, the umber stole it; no kiss, just goodnight