Silence throws it's spread across this April dawn
It's cotton coating soaks up dyes of the morning dew

Sunlight shows it's head to choirs of water drops
It's wealth of hours warming this cold and golden morning, reassuring and informing,
"No white wind will be storming for a long time"

Spider sews his thread atop this leaf, his lawn
He crawls, a big and black umbrella with his legs open wide

And you wish a closer viewing, but your six short legs aren't moving
Now the spider's silk is spooling over you
Why do you shudder?
Don't you feel a thing anymore?
Don't you feel yourself shudder?
Don't you? Don't you feel?

Siren crows, "He's dead!"
Throughout these concrete crops, winds slowly to a stop at his six-story drop
The tired city clears it's eyes of the morning dew