The drops press me down, harder as each day pass by.
The green is growing, streams are running,
The blues are vanishing, but the greys are clustering.
The drops roll down the roof, I see through the bars,
The open is calling, I am ready to fly,
But it is so hard to sail from my eternal abode.
That broken window, the rusted fence,
The bowing trees, the dim street lamp,
The crack in door, the pale walls,
The drip on head, the music on roof,
When shall I see this beauty again.