an old village is sleeping
and some hushed lullaby
From the faltered steps of dreaming
speechless sense arise
crooked tide is restless
and legs had (???) salted lamps
and pairs in the harbor
young girls in the morning sun
to say (???) of living
is unvieled from every doorway
and parched upon the breeze
to be carried across the sea
and is settled in every bird of every tree
and it's (???) of rocks
and the siren streams
and in the weather storms of the greats(?)
or wherever we shall live
or wherever we shall live
or wherever we shall live
and (???) all dancers
the (???) (???) ladies
(???) by and whisper never be young again
and all the drunk sailors
who sneer into thier marks
and pining (???) for another round of victory
(it's dour festival)
and (???) young daughters
faces painted neon white
the flash revieled
hands encrawled into the night
and the clay cracked poets who (???) spolted anecdotes
abandoned (???) who are crusted by all bizarre
(it's dour festival)
and we young hunched (???)
we laughed in the face of the stars
aware they were jelous of our youth
and every (???) roadside
sun drenched in (???) (???)
and it's dour festival
(it's dour festival)