I was busy, I was occupiednI was burning the fieldsnA wind of black was blowing over menand when the cilia revealed all the ash lining my lungsnI heard a song, I heard a whisperingnI gave my torch to the flamenI counted out the numbers silently na list of places and names nthat I'd best get back to, at leastnwere I soon to find leave or releasenTo sing again, now and thennnow, at leastnnOn to death, and on to dignitynon to flowering the gravenon to faith, and on to pietynon to sending away nall the tools our dynasty yieldsnAll these papers and axles and wheelsnon to quiet, on to silencenon to stillnnIt's not unsustainablenso don't even try to explain me awaynWe can make it, lovenwe can bend at the kneesnwe can fall and still we can recovernIt's not unsustainablenDon't say it; it's not unsustainable