Tekster: Why?. Eskimo Snow.

All of my words for sadness
Like eskimo snow on unmanned crosses all
Planted in threes in a field for living trees
I hum these prayers in secret
and sung them through speakers in rooms for people to hear it
Even when I'm wasted and numb
With the words for good wine on a philistine's tongue

And I'm under something black
and thicker than a sheet for ghosts
in the first beat of snow
That old cloud's you
On the crosses on the chests of dead soldiers in a field
and I'm still here
Bearing my watery fruits if fruits at all
And I'm still here
Barely understanding what truth that rarely calls