Legs, they yearn themselves
Up hills and into monasteries,
Plagued by the dissipation of the evening light,
The trees, they know how little it means
To live as a man,
They burn with dissipation of the evening

And we've seen you in silks,
In robes, in crowns, in power-suits,
And we've seen you quoting scripts,
God's will, divine rights, free market grants,

And it's the bones of the world,
And it's the chalk of the child,
And it's the nature of regret

And it's the grind of the drill,
And it's the blood in the mud,
And it's the nature of regret

And it's the phlegm in the lungs,
And it's the waste of the heart,
And it's the nature of regret

Sometimes, I leave my room
And idle on buses and trains
Pushing forth, devoid of meaning,

Sometimes I plug myself
Into retreats of tweets,
Scrolling idly through the evening

And it's the boots in the mud
And it's the wire in the blood,
And it's the myths we create
For ourselves

And it's the buildings hollowed out
And it's the music without space
And it's the drones circling around        
                                                      (Pakistan­i vistas and towns.)

Trees, they know how insignificant
It is to live as a man,
For this, they'll burn,

It is the nature of regret.