There Are Women Upstairs

There are women upstairs
they talk about life, the lack thereof;
this must be love; this must be romance
I hear them murmur about things
beneath thin rooms, they do not know it
but the guise of their hearts breathe
no new wind, it stifles in the summer,
it burns in the cold,

and it is no longer of interest to me.

The house that stood there atop the hill is an old ghost.
It wails and moans when I am not looking,
it calls out to me, it is no longer alive,
why should I stay in death when life abounds elsewhere?

There are women upstairs
and they talk about me; they talk about the lack thereof;
as they search for my heart
they would know that I had left a long time ago
for a cold town where there are no walls,
and out there, beyond the mist,
I shall walk past the moor
and start looking for a body to hold.