Blush Static Dreams, opus 2477

Whar silence breithes on gless sae thin, Ah bide whaur nae soul gies a name. Dust draws a whorl wi nae begin— And ilka glint feels aye the same. Drift, ma dear, through the lown-chamber, Whaur shaddaes croon yer sigh. Cry me nae mair, but Ah'll aye be— A ghaist that winnae reply. The wa’s aye haud yer sillouette, The mirk still kens yer grace. Even time walks saft by yer name— Like a cot it daursnae face. Drift, ma dear, through the lown-chamber, Whaur shaddaes croon yer sigh. Cry me nae mair, but Ah'll aye be— A ghaist that winnae reply.