Kitchen of Vinegar
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Kitchen of Vinegar
Some things are too poor to own houses as we do,
And they're too rich to hang around on the streets also,
Those things rather settle for the hearts of many men
And take it all down with their feet, slow and steady.
Hurts like flames, they're always boiled in our kettle,
Steaming their unseen ways into the eyes of the blazing sun,
And while only ghosts sit at the table to feast,
They tend to return to their container and stay silent;
Here and there, words are scattered in libraries,
How I wish these words would be the voice of these flames,
Every day, we boil the flames in red hot fire,
And the entire pain solidifies in our red heart mire;
Even the eastern waxwings know these things we say,
But they still sing those songs we don't want to hear,
They still burn those flames they won't wait to quench,
How the world would remain a kitchen of vinegar.