Their names still burn your throat with the same fire that lit their pyres 3000 years ago.
And yet you still have the audacity to call them dead?

There's blue
There's green
There's purple in you
And red down his knees

There's that fun yellow in your arms
And a touch of black under her eyes
I search for the white of your hands
But they've disappear under the light

I miss the orange
It keept it a little lighter
Now we're left with gray
And empty ink bottles piled higher and higher

maybe the point of arriving is finding one who´s just as lost

the sky is on fire
at sunset

(and you want to know
why i'm sitting
on the roof

the sky is on fire

and I only dream of you

and in Tibet
the monks write their prayers
on rice paper
and climb to a high mountain top
and fling their prayers
into the wind
where they will float
to heaven
and be answered

the clouds:
violet,
pale yellows,
and pink

and you want to know
what i'm doing
sitting up on the roof

so standing
I take the toilet paper
from my shirt pocket

and the wind knows
and skyward it goes)

the sky is on fire at sunset

and my quiet heart beats only for you

think i heard a night jar

up the valley here.

it was a quiet night except

for that.

we have the window open now.