I lay still in the fire
Oh, the gra**. Burn in bed
Blackened ash
A cold sound rustled in the trees
Pulling limbs
The smoke rose. The smoke rose
It'd come to make a mess of things
And throw a storm of burnt flakes
Lifting to the air the floating world
To let them go silent into the ground
Where all things make work of coming back
I lay in the ground, wait, lonely for you
My hair grows, nails grow out
And I count them as they go
One, two, three, four, five, six
Break into air
Set themselves between the blades of gra**
So let your bare feet bleed