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Unawareness song

In a fortnight the calendar has been receded, and afterwards time dangled endways.
We lived there unaware of neither the lasting we have till the end days,
nor if we gonna make it.

And when the unawareness made us unstrung
you and I were out while the day was still young,
absentmindedly from an untenanted guesthouse went to a village.
Like we really were a foodstuff to seek,
that remained there probably since Holy Week,
that is local provisions which are unavoidably mirthless and thick.

In the blossoming nature the hives of bee-garden like strings in a piano were chanting.
And we went alongside of a water where motionless fishes were standing
moving only their mouths. 

But the foodstuff was vary from what one would think,
and the backwater's thicket was all spike and sting.
And the coast had a scent not of freshwater shallow, but distant and salty.
The beginning of hereafter was to ascent,
while the soul was aligning with something undreamt,
and the soul would imagine that sky was in sobbing and weeping sky went.

Not at all it was weeping and sobbing, it was rather laughing, deriding and mocking.
Not for us, but in silence. And the unawareness was sweetly smoking,
nearby, as a river.

And had slided we to unawareness that,
so undreamt-of embodiment would us begat,
we would not take with us any thing but apart from this only vacation,
with fallacious tune and tumultuous scrape,
with a spike and a sting on a flowerless scape,
where nothing could ever take shape and apparently never took shape.

Where we would pull through scarcely likely, but where
in a water the motionless fishes stood bare,
like a dream, that embraces an eon, but lasts even less than a second,
where all but itself would the soul terrify,
and a mockery was in the fastuous sky,
that was neither tempestuous nor revelating, but just floating by.