||Dark blue bottles.|
The dirt has made it hard to see
what they were when
they were new, boisterous blue
bright blue bottles.
||And I feel that fog has filled my mind.|
And I see a dead tree of my kind.
And I sadly feel that we don't mind
that we think forgetfulness is kind.
||In my cellar|
the world is taken over by dust and cold.
And mold has covered things of old.
And now I know that I cannot recall
anything at all.