Blue Music Dream

All the years are recorded on that blue apron

All the years are recorded on that blue apron,

your cold hands are a groom’s before I do.  

bodies come in bags and are reclaimed by the living

The corridor of the mausoleum, grass, the tent, the many sad faces,

an occasional wailing in the small chapel,

look how splendid the funeral bus wears a black.

This is just another August for you

and we are finally here to say goodbye

take a few photos and bury our dead.

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