The band’s already playing
But you're still lost in the book
Where your life is ending.
O mechanical playing of trumpets
Whispers a boy to a deaf man
By the cutout of a frozen lake.
If you must you will find it,
Tattered on a paged clothesline,
Worried by the angry birds of words.
Stay a bit longer, the book tempts,
If only for a merriment.
The dark drink finds
High harmonies in the glass.
Sing if it’s danger in your hands.