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lyrics

The sun was low in the sky. I wished for a cold wind to bring tears to my eyes. All I got was sweaty palms and an itch near my elbow on my arm.

I saw a man to my right, his hands deep in the earth—cupping and piling, like a child at the beach. He was singing. His voice was an uncouth symphony of rasp and cracks; his song was a quaking mountain on a burial ground:

“O grace, O glory,
run like the dark from the morning’s light!
O fate, O destiny, I am not the bestowed,
a bestower—a giver of life!
Drown—drown in your uncorked ships.
Let sleep your sun burnt lips.
Shake—shake fill your lungs.
Accept the end with your own maxim:
What is, is. What’s done is done.”

He rose—his hands tucked away in his pockets. He looked at me—eyes mirrored with tears; I saw myself. A feather became caught in my throat and while he placed a harmonica to his lips he said, “Would you like to hear more?”

I smiled wide and he sang on and on:

credits

from desperate songs, released March 7, 2009

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