Still,I am writing to you from the crest of the wave,
As the hum from your tower is after the silence.
This epistle (you've found in a nest or a net)
Is my only resort. I've been marked as a minus
By the clatter of wheels and the chatter of storm,
Yet the strings of a rain tore the glass of the window.
As you lie in your bed, beam will step on the floor,
Near the letter of mine and will pass you my wisdom.
Still, I am writting to you from the lick of the sky,
With your voice in my head, I'm beholding the tower,
In which walls could be melt in a blink of an eye.
Close your eaves and prepare. It'll be over at dawn.