these thoughts of you
they are a gift 
the smell of you 
on the winds due shift 
behind a chosen curtain 
I'm set adrift 
the talk of you still on my lips 
 [bad word] from 
another place in my chest 
golden brown and wooden burled 
till we have faces in this world 
an if I hear an do not do 
how can I look after you 

every white bird 
at the top of your voice 
this days tear 
watch [bad word] 
she never grows 
faint in the try 
distant and blurred to my swing eye 

these thoughts of you 
are the dreams that I have missed 
the touch of you I hear 
I hear 
o yes and so are you 
in an always way 
bound wovenhand 
to stay 

every white bird 
at the top of your voice 
this days tear 
watch [bad word] 
she never grows 
faint in the try 
distant and blurred to my swing eye