Window is a ghost for the son of god
it has killed his trust in man.

Like a windmill not knowing
that there is a wind.
He was only trying to
stick back orchids in his young eyes.

Let nobody hang on the window
well I have heard faults of my own mother.

The truth maybe different outside the doors
all real and all close even a beat of their chests
whenever they face us, saying they all love us.
So, tell the brave ones that the world is just thick water that may fill our mind
where our shadows sit chewing the night.

Now let us all hide our ears with the hoods of our raincoats
the rain is hard
and the wind is sweeping our tears.

That window is dead for the son of god
it has made a flower into a stone.



Copyright 2007 Roshan Tulachan