The sky, tall in the saddle is parading the autumn
Making dough out of those who are being rewarded
And the telly tells lies about battles…
In this brand of the year I am living on balance
And my song is for sure of the pluvial genus
Yet my song is not finished
And it’s not furnished
My song is a reply to Ann and Liza’s letters
On the waterlogged sills hang the scattered wind’s spatters
Spring had gathered them up with her lips
And away she did slip
With a woe on my back I will crawl to the road
Dying’s not a great thing if you’ve moistened the throat
But from you it makes harder to go
Our ego
Living graves can be found where there’s danger and drivels,
And they usually pound us for bread and adherence
And this autumn we’re paying for light
We are dancing on bends, turning over for ages
And no one has an end, even those who are strangers
There’s our song soaring high in the clouds
And yet nothing at all, almost nothing has happened
Yesterday I recalled that my life was a phantasm
It has turned to this autumn at once
And if there is ill all around
And if there’s thin things spread about
God love us all, without a sound
God love us all, love us aloud
And sometimes our lives would start putting forth flowers
This means, friend, that he passed, just between us he powered
But he isn’t so easy to see…