I lay still in the fire.
Oh, the grass. Burn in bed.
Blackened ash.
A cold sound rustled in the trees
Pulling limbs.
The smoke rose. The smoke rose.
It'd come to make a mess of things
And throw a storm of burnt flakes,
Lifting to the air the floating world,
To let them go silent into the ground
Where all things make work of coming back.
I lay in the ground, wait, lonely for you.
My hair grows, nails grow out
And I count them as they go
One, two, three, four, five, six
Break into air.
Set themselves between the blades of grass,
So let your bare feet bleed.
Oh, the grass. Burn in bed.
Blackened ash.
A cold sound rustled in the trees
Pulling limbs.
The smoke rose. The smoke rose.
It'd come to make a mess of things
And throw a storm of burnt flakes,
Lifting to the air the floating world,
To let them go silent into the ground
Where all things make work of coming back.
I lay in the ground, wait, lonely for you.
My hair grows, nails grow out
And I count them as they go
One, two, three, four, five, six
Break into air.
Set themselves between the blades of grass,
So let your bare feet bleed.