All my words for sadness, like Eskimo snow on unmanned crosses, allnPlanted in threes in a field for living treesnAre hummed as prayers in secretnand sung through speakers in rooms for people to hear itnEven when I'm wasted and numbnWith the words for good wine on a philistine's tonguennAnd I'm under something blacknand thicker than a sheet for ghostsnor the first feet of snow that old,nthat old clouds yieldnOn the crosses on the chests of dead soldiers in a field, and I'm...nand I'm still herenBearing my watery fruits, if fruits at allnand I'm still here,nbarely understanding what truth that rarely callsnthen i'm still here,nbearing my watery fruits, if fruits at allnbarely understanding what truth that rarely calls