Winds

I wrote this song last Saturday. You can’t hear the tune, but it’s fabulous. And just in case you might think otherwise, you probably never will.

Winds (or, How to Kill and Be Killed)

These two winds how they blow.
I want to run, but they’re everywhere I go.
And I’ve got two things on my mind:
how to kill and be killed, or how to die.

And you keep promising me things I’ve never seen –
how do I know if you’re real or just a dream?

I keep trying to sew
bits of me over garments clean as snow.
With this comfortable skin
to say the stable is yours, I’ll keep the inn.

And I keep on promising you everything I am;
when I keep a piece, I’ll promise it again,

cause I’m not sure what you’re asking of me
when you keep chaining me up to set me free,
and if you burn me alive, how can I live?
If you take it all away, what can I give?

I’ve got a bird in my hand,
but one in the bush who’s defining who I am.
It’s so obvious to me
which enslaves and which one sets me free.
But I keep turning back and forth as if to say,
“I’d give it up, but you’re taking it away.”

Cause I’m not sure what you’re asking of me
when you keep chaining me up to set me free,
and if you burn me alive, how can I live?
If you take it all away, what can I give?

How did you find me in all of this mess?
How did you bid me say yes?
Now will you take me, thistle and thorn,
like you did before I was born?