And listening to it, Believing every drop, We feel more cleansed than ever before. The stark beauty of our emotions, The sudden birth of cosmic tenderness In which we all flourish, And indulge ourselves in the mysterious Nakedness which envelops us. As we sleep. As a gift was not intended as messenger, Though it did sing and its cheerful remarks Upon arrival and its pleas Were interpreted as great literature. It seems the bird found us wanting, Our air muddy, our water putrid.
Falls bleak soundless dark pitiful.
The immutable inner landscapes, Our ultimately flawed visions, The truly remarkable rage Which makes our songs so sweet. Deluxe edition, three thousand quag.