The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Sunday, January 20, 2008

shade and honey

I could look in your face
For a thousand years
It’s like a civil war
Of pain and of cheer

But if you was a horse
I could help you with your chains
I could ride you through the fields
By your fiery mane

May your shade be sweet
And float upon the lakes
Where the sun will be
Made of honey

I'll cry gardens while you burn
'Cause no one here can save you
She’s returning to the Earth
But one day she’ll be silver

The stars are dying in my chest
Till I see you again
She was born with the wings of a hawk
Where she combs her hair with blood

May your shade be sweet
And float upon the lakes
Where the sun will be
Made of honey

May your shade be sweet
And float upon the lakes
Where the sun will be
Made of honey

May your shade be sweet
May your shade be sweet
And float upon the lakes...

May your shade be sweet

Sparklehorse

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