I was drawn in like the Red Baron,
And shot down by the Goodman Empire,
Whom I wounded with my dream of Winter,
Where my freezing heart was too cold,
And my Summer family hostaged to grief.

Oh Frieda, in the mirror you’re so clear,
That I call this picture of you self portraiture,
The nightingale sitting in the pine tree,
Singing to my silence so perfectly,
Gentle as the echo so I might bear thee.

Everything here sleeps lying upon the earth,
In my blue skies above everything was so clear –
But we are not the mother of bombs my dear,
Just holes in the ground where our lives used to be,
Heading deeper and deeper into this singularity.