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It is winter The wind is picking up Newspapers raze through the streets like kites It is winter Newspapers raze It is winter, winter The tin cans still lie, nearly rattling The tin cans still lie, past the gutters and the lids The tin cans still lie, nearly rattling The tin cans still lie, past the gutters and the lids The cogs of loss are shifting. Grind together crackling in stones. Together cold hands and raised shoulders Topside callous hands, a blue drape. Today I will see the fathers again. They stand next to slides with laughter. The suppressed heaven and tall buildings topple hard as glass serrations grind the hollow truth From Letras Mania