I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
Floating on the sky
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
And beyond, the same sound of bees
When I am heard, and what I say is solely
at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
And beyond, the same sound of bees
Everywhere, utterly.
to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
Standing in the way of the truth. A white
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring