gently in these ragged folds
|
curled up and warm like easter's child
|
a breath so faint, angelic weight
|
|
i can't deny
|
that i drift sometimes
|
even in these loving moments
|
to summery fields i call my own
|
where i can lie and in them feel
|
at one with my death
|
with limbs outstretched
|
|
i can't deny
|
that i'm weak sometimes
|
even in my strongest moments
|
and the way you cry at me
|
i don't know why
|
you stay
|
|
-----------------
|
Moments
|
| Red House Painters |
