That tree morning by morning
for a rest lying on the gra**.
I spoke and spoke, quiet, lookin' at its navels.
Words, fallin' down one by one.
Some diary leaves wind up into
an orange juice with pulp.
I would like to bring back just the better ones.
What if I make a juice?
One of these days, to let go a piece of me,
at least that's better than nothing.
I would like to bring back the better ones for a while, to let go a part of me,
at least that's better than nothing.
Under a flickering shadow
I'll choose two or three, no more.
Another time and place,
another stranger ending.
I would like to bring back just the better ones.
What if I make a juice?
One of these days, to let go a piece of me,
at least that's better than nothing.
I would like to bring back the better ones for a while, to let go a part of me,
at least that's better than nothing.