Morning,
and your voice interrupts the old dream
where I still run down old roads and unfamiliar streets,
never stopping for long.
Night,
and my restless turning
won鈥檛 quiet its angry rhythm.
You stand between them,
a perfect interruption,
a steadfast calm inside all the roads
you鈥檝e taken.
I would prefer the moon to glow less angrily,
influence me to turn more easily.
Years gone,
I am angrier than the moon
and your voice, another road that intrigues.
