There's something about this gloomy night,
A sense of contentment.
I fly on these paper Planes,
Bleeding ink over and over again.
There's something about this vagueness,
This persistent strangeness.
The essence of loss and alienation,
Surfing a wave on a stormy Ocean.
There's something about this damped life, Vibrant Ecstasy turned into past.
The Cuckoo doesn't sing anymore,
All she does is cry on a broken twig of a cursed tree, on that gloomy night.