I've heard that wakefulness is life.

That hearin' and seein'
and feelin' a'tastin' and touchin'
are living all the same.

I've heard that to bear one's heart is above all deeds.

He said,
"The world's built for cynics, don't say such things. I'd spit on an ant just to sit and watch it drown before I'd share a picnic crumb with an ant who can't swim."

I'm not a heavy sleeper,
I don't spend much time shot puttin' a'careenin'
through nighttime and midday naps.

I think it's hard to bear one's heart.

I hope that someday my son has a branch outside his window.
And that at night it will whip o' wind
and scratch a'scrapin' at his window
and his call will bring me in to bear my heart.

And that the person I first love will walk out the door,
intent to leave me forever, just so I can run after them.
In a sprint to hailing cab to feet on airport linoleum I won't dare say,

"Come back."

No, I'll be a'whisperin' sayin',

"I don't care where that plane's going as long as I'm going there with you."

In the terminal I'll run in to bear my heart.
I guess at the bottom of it all I just want to bear my heart.

I've heard that wakefulness is life
and that the sleeping are not living.

Nor a'dying buyin' time in nonexistent shot putt courts
where they aim for dreams within their dream.
The sleeping are surely always dreaming. But wakefulness is life.