Infantile, juvenile, call it what you will For now I shall believe that my life's been one big spill and for notches in Your belt, or notches on Your bedpost I ran along the snowy banks vying for lost hope My bare feet turned to ice blocks and for me that's my burden I did it only to inform the other birds that You'll lure in To forewarn them of the gentle hands that mend broken wings because in the beginning all is heard while angels sing and maybe by the end I’ll harbor brand new feathers but the fingerprints upon them are now far too much to weather Sat atop an emerald pedestal in a cage spun of gold A window has become all that's left of old So fair warning to all whose veins are weak: don't give away your hopes to just anyone that will let you speak For what it's worth my wing does seem improved Although the brokenness was my only form of proof