Eskimo Snow

All my words for sadness
 Like eskimo snow on unmanned crosses
 All planted in threes
 In a field for living trees
 Are hummed as prayers in secret
 And sung through speakers in rooms for people to hear it
 Even when I'm wasted and numb
 With the words for good wine on a philistine's tongue
 And I'm under something black and thicker
 Than a sheet for ghosts or the first feet of snow
 That old, that old clouds yield
 On the crosses on the chests of dead soldiers in a field
 Then I'm, then I'm still here
 Bearing my watery fruits if fruits at all
 Then I'm still here
 Barely understanding what truth that rarely calls
 Then I'm still here
 Bearing my watery fruits if fruits at all
 Then I'm still here
 Barely understanding what truth that rarely calls