I was busy, I was occupied.
I was burning the fields.
A wind of black was blowing over me,
And when the cilia revealed
All the ash lining my lungs,
I heard a song, I heard a whispering.
I gave my torch to the flame.
I counted out the numbers silently,
A list of places and names
That I'd best get back to, at least,
Were I soon to find leave or release.
To sing again, now and then; now, at least.

On to death, and on to dignity;
On to flowering the grave.
On to faith, and on to piety,
On to sending away
All the tools our dynasty yields:
All these papers and axles and wheels.
On to quiet, on to silence,
On to still.

It's not unsustainable,
So don't even try to explain me away.
We can make it, love -
We can bend at the knee, we can fall
And still we can recover.

It's not unsustainable, don't say it;
It's not unsustainable.

See also:
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