Your conscience rolls in torrents down each side of your face.
Your chair is full of silence, your hand is full of lace.
You say that you should have been by him when the bullets
Laid his head.
Strange it’s always the living who fear the idea of the dead.
I’ll take my leave of all of you as you sit and wonder why.
And you who stood around us and said that we were great.
Until your instant riches made us second rate.
Well you’re the same old hangman who rationalizes hope.
Whose left hand pats my children and whose right hand holds a case full of rope.
He wears the sweeping landscape in the crystal of his eye.
And he jumps into the rain pools as the people pass him by.
He rubs the dusty ages across his tender brow.
He laughs and cries and sniffs and sighs. It’s four long summers now.
I made my peace with all of you as you sat and wondered why.
She walks the clover meadows in the dandelion days.
She throws her golden shadows across the silver haze.
She wanders with the swallows in the noonday passion plays.
She sits beneath the willow and she waits for me and twilight to come our ways.
We made our peace with all the world as you sat and wondered why.