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