In the garden, in the park, on a bench, I sit.   A newspaper floats on the breeze of this late summer.   It is coming my way,   I patiently wait.      I see the sign, it's on the road   and I think it's crazy      In the garden, of the park, on a bench, I watch.   The sandy feet of the children.   Pearls of sweat run across their beautiful faces.      You see the sign, it's on the road   but I think you're crazy      You are, you are the sign   of my unrelief      As I easily get inner contact with myself,   I notice distress grabbing for my throat.   It is time to reach out.   To find something that isn't there,      You see the signs, they're on the road   but I think it's crazy      You are, you are the sign   of my unrelief