Hours

Hours drip
Splashing bashfully 
on the plate
Fountains hold out their arms
And they flow away

The plate is afraid
That the next drop will be the last
And silently the surface trembles

What ever can happen?
What ever can happen?

Hours burn
Curling the firey-tresses
and melt away
over nothing

The fire is afraid
That it will meet with damp kindling
When it comes to devour
the last one drop

What ever can happen?
What ever can happen?