The grey morning

The grey morning
Runs its cold delicate hands
On my shoulders
And playfully toys with my dress
The grey morning
Is full of the murmurs of life
The sounds of today
Voices of today
And the silent pains of yesterday
Which nobody speaks of
The grey morning
Is full of the stories of exile
The silver wings of the doves of loneliness
Upon the metallic sky
And the hoary smoke of the cigarettes of uncertainty
Over the coffee cups of unresolved questions
And the dancing of the pupils of eyes
That look from one face to another
In search of an answer
Oh what cold delicate hands
Has the grey morning.

July 2006
London