Brian Bourque's Music Blog – Bbelief.com

Fertile mind with little to do
Seeds waste water in the ground

They will not grow.

You did not show them the earth
They do not feel cabbages, rice, dirt

All is damp and overblown, oppressive

Why do some leave so quickly,
and others stay longer than they should?

We know the nervous strain,
The mangled tyranny of time.

Hurry on, hurry home,
Like warbling rats
Tracing tracks for food.

Throw names in the air,
To be wreaked by thunderbolts.

The pieces will form a new ground,
A new earth.

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I am nine hundred years old
Twelve billion hairs of the eternal beard
Eight acres of dirt

I am many days old
They stretch out behind me
Like worn skins covering earth
Your children have already grown

I walked east when days were hot
But never met the sun.

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