Standing by the window,
eyes upon the moon,
hoping that the memory
will leave her spirit soon.
She shuts the doors and lights
and lays her body on the bed,
where images and words are
running deep.
She has too much pride to pull
the sheets above her head.
So quietly she lays and waits
for sleep.
She stares at the ceiling
and tries not to think.
And pictures the chains
she's been trying to link again.
But the feeling is gone...
And water can't cover her
memory,
and ashes can't answer her
pain.
God give me the power to take
breath from a breeze,
and call life from a cold metal
frame.
In with the ashes,
or up with the smoke from the
fire,
with wings up in heaven,
or here, lying in bed...
Palm of her hand to my head,
now and forever curled in my
heart,
and the heart of the world...