It is a time of wind and rain and in the green wood the voices of the dead coagulate and skim this edge of consciousness. It is a time of heavy-hearted dread. It is the day of the dead. And what have we done Since the last, lingering death? Nothing, nada, no The wicked still prosper, And the rich come and go And the world spins the same As ever it did before And the poor are as they were they before Footprints in the snow. And as this fog surrounds us And the mist is everywhere Let these hands of merely humans Meet in this thin air.
Butterflies emerge from unraveling cocoons Raising up, flying away like hot air balloons Traveling the world from calm meadows to isolated lagoons Harmonious living with the squirrels and raccoons Soaring above endless ocean until treacherous typhoons Relentless digging uncovered a
When my heart breaks I weep as I’ll weep for days, With weeks that’ll go by without any sleep I’ll stay wide awake, Where I’ll wait here in the same old tiring place, With nothing besides this woman on my