An ageless whispery weave we sit on
As friends on an ancient glade,
Our grain heads bump into one another's
Eternally shifting sighing movements
Remarkably from one place to another
Without anyone losing their wheat

Strangely on grey days we encounter
An unexpected rolling back
Of the strangest colorations of our minds
Sadly, we do it to ourselves
We do, we do
And that is the hardest part about flying
To awaken ourselves from our thorny nests

Let's carve wooden boxes for each other
Wrapped in green cloth, hidden under arms
We'll pass these boxes along until
Someone finds and opens it
Inside it a dagger, as all helping hands become
And though its edges are sharp and painful
With use, brush will turn gold and fall

What's left behind? That's the adventure of love.