The tarmacadam is true
I feel ok to say these words
Holding on to some ideal of you
The bends are smooth
The morning sky is a perfect blue
I feel ok with these words
These words especially for you
The yews are spreading
In the old churchyard
I turned over the bedding
Not to be caught off guard
The rapeseed is growing
Each day more so by the yard
The North winds are blowing
Once more I've shown my cards
I declared my hand
Without saying a single thing
I wasn't making a stand
Nor even trying to be King
It was a cry from the soul
All torment finally accrued
It was a cry that after all
Was all I was left able to do
Yet I didn't leave spaces
For you to wander through
No I tied up the tired laces
Tinged with Yves-Klein-Blue
But I did leave out
Whatever it was I was not to do
Also I did not work out
What to leave behind for you
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