As I lie dying, on the edge of my eyelids/
I am whirling like a dervish/
The fabric ripples/
In the absence of air/
Wooden is the table/
In the absence of weight/
Wooden is the mind/
In the presence of it/
There are termites/
Burrowing, burrowing, burrowing/
And there is whoring, whoring, whoring/
To pleasures that are not deserved/
That are not mine to win, to savour/
The liquid is like mercury in a thermometer/
When a child plays with it: silver (or sliver) going up-down/
Up down/
The droning clink of a medal of honour on the wall/
May sound like the death-knell of a dreamless sleep/
Your tears are not yours alone/
They are also mine to keep.
