|
Hine-MacIver |
|
Take a beanpole that has felt the seasons change |
|
He's known the wind against its face |
|
And place it firmly on the softest ground. |
|
Throw around the pole a cloak of patterns curious |
|
That catch the sun |
|
And turn the eye away from what is true. |
|
Paint upon its face a smile |
|
That never questions why |
|
And crown it with a high hat made of straw. |
|
And when the evening creeps into your eyes |
|
You leave it for the world to see |
|
This sad reflection name it vanity. |
|
Hear the voices talking |
|
Though their lips are barely moving |
|
Yet their words are cutting quick |
|
To find the softest ground. |
|
Twisting in their broken flight |
|
To catch the dreams you cast aside |
|
To bring them once again before your eyes. |
|
Raise the Scarecrow to their lips |
|
That stiffen |
|
And then turn away |
|
To leave you thankful |
|
Breathless if alone. |
|
And though you are too real to disappear |
|
You sink again into your bones |
|
And leave the Scarecrow to the World. |
|
Take a beanpole that has felt the seasons change |
|
He's known the wind against its face |
|
And place it firmly on the softest ground. |
|
Throw around the pole a cloak of patterns curious |
|
That catch the sun |
|
And turn the eye away from what is true. |
|
In its hands you place your bitter tears |
|
Its legs will be your broken dreams |
|
Swaying from the gibbert of contempt. |
|
And when you seek for gentle words |
|
You'll find its shadow reappears |
|
To shield you from |
|
The tenderness of love |