Last Moments Last
Edges of stones cut through my fear;
I press my fingers harder down;
them shaking...no, I hear it coming.
Wind is kissing and stroking my hair;
Iron feels cold against my nape;
look, and - there, I see it coming.
Up in the cavern of heaven my bell
Tolls louder than the screaming horn.
grass and petrol; I smell it coming.
Crumble to pieces my nerves of steel,
as its wheels screech against metal,
it coming through me, cutting.