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All my words for sadness |
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Like eskimo snow on unmanned crosses |
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All planted in threes |
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In a field for living trees |
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Are hummed as prayers in secret |
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And sung through speakers in rooms for people to hear it |
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Even when I'm wasted and numb |
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With the words for good wine on a philistine's tongue |
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And I'm under something black and thicker |
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Than a sheet for ghosts or the first feet of snow |
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That old, that old clouds yield |
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On the crosses on the chests of dead soldiers in a field |
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Then I'm, then I'm still here |
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Bearing my watery fruits if fruits at all |
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Then I'm still here |
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Barely understanding what truth that rarely calls |
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Then I'm still here |
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Bearing my watery fruits if fruits at all |
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Then I'm still here |
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Barely understanding what truth that rarely calls |
