My death waits like an old roué
so confident I’ll go his way
whistle to him and the passing time…
My death waits like a bible truth
at the funeral of my youth
weep loud for that –
and the passing time…
My death waits like
a witch at night
as surely as our love is bright
let’s not think about the passing time
But whatever lies behind the door
there is nothing much to do…
angel or devil, I don’t care
for in front of that door…
there is you.
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