All of my words for sadness   Like eskimo snow on unmanned crosses all   Planted in threes in a field for living trees   I hum these prayers in secret   and sung them through speakers in rooms for people to hear it   Even when I'm wasted and numb   With the words for good wine on a philistine's tongue      And I'm under something black   and thicker than a sheet for ghosts   in the first beat of snow   That old cloud's you   On the crosses on the chests of dead soldiers in a field   and I'm still here   Bearing my watery fruits if fruits at all   And I'm still here   Barely understanding what truth that rarely calls