I asked your roots to grow into my flesh, to use my veins as maps. You let them dig into my skin, but your hatred drew them back. So still I stand between the their bodies, and I look east for winter's end, I urge the dirt to drink my blood, and let the Tall Trees grow again.
Young, wicked boys, we danced through dust, Drunk on death and mad with song. My fading laughter showed the truth; One pair of footsteps all along. So still I sit with dying giants, Their leaves will fall by end of June. My hero's eyes burned holes in me, I dug holes here for me and you.
The tall trees died when we were ten, They seemed to shrink as we grew up. We walked the forest one last time, Just before the clear cut.