an unmade bednthe unfinished book lies half-readnunderneath the chain-lightnstaring into spacena secret from some other placenand now what kind of insidenbelow the picture of your mother and her wingnthere are records in the cornernwhere she taught you how to singnnbye bye bluebirdnbye bye my bluebirdnnin your head these are not the only wordsnthere were promises of continents and other things I heardnas we stoned the birdnwe stood there for a long timenhoping it would risenwaiting for it to fly againnand one by one we all turned awaynoff to kill the grass where the others came to playnnbye bye bluebirdnbye bye my bluebirdnnif it was it all easy to get your attentionnI would be the king of hell and you my henchmennsomewhere in all these flames we would seek the open skynassassins by tradentwisting in the bladenmurdering the lullabynnthinking aboutnmaybe I'll fly awaynnmy oh my