If the campfire charcoal knew how to speak,
I am sure it would never start talking to you,
And the Kararski marble would not watch as you disappear.
But you're busy with war
you are shooting at thousands of birds and thousands of years,
I will not answer when someone asks me what good the battle will do.
In the post-Pink Floyd dreams of a very young yard sweeper
you will be caught in a pipe,
And arrogant ladies will fasten you tight to the stake.
They will crown you with flowers,
and songs will be heard in their wake as they run,
Forgetting your very name,
And nobody will remember your life.
When the day of silver finally comes,
and the crystal is clean as the dew,
He who was running will finally discover his peace.
You will rise from the bowels of the earth,
purified, but unsure who you might be,
I would like to be near you
when the horseman stretches an unsoiled leaf out to you.