The plum trees are falling asleep
The heart of the village beats the chamade
The red paper flower
I picked it at nightfall

A church counts down the hours
Until the dusty morning
I have nowhere to sleep
I am a breathless soul

And my ideas like ears of wheat
Bending ever more under the west wind
I crouch down
Under the shade of a poplar tree

The moon makes me a bed of light
On my bench, under the trees
And the wind collects my prayers
Like an invisible priest

I picked the red paper flower
I crushed the petals on the rock
To make myself a red ink
The night laughs out loud

The clouds threaten to spit their venom
And my heart is beating wildly
I walked to the village
On the church square

And on the gothic building
I wrote with my floral ink
My name in scarlet ink
THE STORM