I’m writing this song for my body, and for my soul.
I’m singing this song, about my return from the cold.
Why am I so tired, is sixty so old.
Why am I so sore, have I been far too bold.
I’m so physically worn and so mentally torn.
I’m so worried about my every waking dawn.
I’m thinking of this quiet life, for you and for me.
I’m wondering if this vigilant life’s, too hard for me.
I’m pondering if this tragic life, shall continue to be.
And feeling this bonded life’s, drifting out to sea.
I’m writing these words for everyone to see.
I’m writing this book, about a single weeping tree.
Why am I so sleepy, am I aging too quickly.
Why am I so sad, who’s looking after me.
I’m this furnace log, burning up with glee.
I’m this sinking boat, all about to flee.
I’m this overburdened camel, or a donkey maybe.
I’m this empty desert, a void, far as the eye can see.
I’m this broken branch, withering and dying, oh so slowly.
I’m this lost shadow, wandering this barren land furtively.
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