We are one at soliped of love and bend, Β Β of low and sliver In roar of distance, knuckle lock existence tears of a small proud child a woman into womb torn to open wound remembering his eyes his laugh, his soft song longing of never land goodbyes, to swollen hot earth Β Β to the dry of my eyes birds flying young to make a Swallow branch here in the old songs of the south.