John Davey
May
we speak of all the holy burning oils we speak just like the daughters of the soil who dress themselves in pretty queen anne's lace and smear all of the red dirt on their faces and we're wandering like all the souls at large reluctantly agreeing to take charge and stake our claim on tiny bits of land to hold the simple glory in our hands and all the bull finches and all the meadow thrushes shall spread their slender wings like the bristles of the brushes and the elevated symphony of all the insect choruses shall call out our names as they desperately implore us and our eyes see even through the gloom the rows and rows of shallow graves and tombs of all of the ancient and the old of all the saints who let their spirits go and we stand quiet above the braes and vales our eyes take in the morning in all her minor details oh! I want to walk with you!
From Letras Mania