Emil Benedict Velichka

Grayer than gray
From day to day
Lay and lay
In his tomb

I offen write 'bout knights
Bards and even kings
I write about sky
But my blind eye

Once a son ask his father
With a voice of sweet bother
What stars are made of?
They like mourning dove

We can't steal your love,
To a grieving man
Says angel above.
Look beyond the sea,