Tulia - Krakowski Spleen

Clouds hang above the city.
There's dark and I can't stand up.
I spoof more quilt, disappear,
bending in myself.

The air is viscous and dense,
the moisture is gathering on faces.
The bird is sadly sitting on tree,
cleaning its plumage lazy.

The morning becomes the noon.
The hours pass limp.
Sometimes fly beeps
in the spider's web.

But the sun is high above,
shining on pilots eyes.
Heating cold blue
spaces tirelessly

I'm waiting for the wind, which will chase.
The dark, swirling curtains.
I'll standing then on time.
With the sun face to face.

I'm waiting for the wind, which will chase.
The dark, swirling curtains.
I'll standing then on time.
With the sun face to face.

The streets are wrapped by fog,
drowning in blind pools.
I'm looking out the window weary,
thinking with longing about the storm.

But the sun is high above,
shining on pilots eyes.
Heating cold blue
spaces tirelessly

I'm waiting for the wind, which will chase.
The dark, swirling curtains.
I'll standing then on time.
With the sun face to face.

I'm waiting for the wind, which will chase.
The dark, swirling curtains.
I'll standing then on time.
With the sun face to face.