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WHY?( WHY )

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WHY?( WHY )

Eskimo Snow

All 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 or the first feet of snow
That old, that old clouds yield
On the crosses on the chests of dead soldiers in a field
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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
Bearing my watery fruits if fruits at all
Then I'm still here
Barely understanding what truth that rarely calls