The long drawn out marches,
bridges on solid grounds.
A black cat in white mounds.
A tree on blue birches.
A finch sits on a warm rock,
and tweets to the wind-
the sound of the rhythm,
is in each crack and bend.
The grass waves in the wind.
It weaves around the trees.
Everything we seek, is sheltered in the breeze.
Nothing else is what we seek, and in what we find.
A finch warms itself on a rock.
Everything around it is empty and lonely,
and the houses at night are botched-
everything in the dark is a phony.
A sparrow flies and sits on a rock.
It dances and moves in a graceful arch.
He is a brother to the finch; you don't want to pick up the block,
and put it down and on you march.
I sing chorus to the wind.
And in your naked eyes.
You weave and you bend,
and tell permanent lies.
Nothing else is broken; nothing else is the same.
We took the lies out of distant cries,
and in the end its in the name-
we say our last goodbyes.
The wind moans its own name.
You told me you wouldn't find the trail
of the sparrow-
that you wouldn't let on, you wouldn't wail,
and you would see me again, tomorrow.
I guess I tried to let it fail.
You hear the naked demons wail.
That's what they call finches and sparrows.