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There's none to call the wind a liar. |
|
Save those whose limbs can flow as fast. |
|
Can creep up on unwatchful truth, |
|
And pluck her sleeves, distract her eyes. |
|
And leave in place the fitting image, |
|
Burnished bright with the rub of easy belief. |
|
The deafest ears hear falsehood's bell |
|
A-tolling in the Belfry. |
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The loudest tongue is his |
|
Whose ear is untuned to what's likely. |
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And thus the knowing spark |
|
Is fanned into the mindless flame, |
|
Denouncing all across its path. |
|
It blots all trace of blame. |
|
Only the blind man touches a hand |
|
And feels a heart afire. |
|
Only the blind man sees so well, |
|
He can call the wind a liar, liar, liar, liar. |
|
Behold the boomerang |
|
Returns riding before the wind. |
|
History written afresh |
|
As the beginning becomes the end, end, end, end. |
|
Only the blind man touches a hand |
|
And feels the heart afire. |
|
Only the blind man sees so well, |
|
He can call the wind a liar, liar, liar, liar. |
|
Behold the boomerang |
|
Returns riding before the wind. |
|
History written afresh |
|
As the beginning becomes the, |
|
Beginning becomes the end. |
