I lay still in the fire. Oh, the grass. Burn in bed. Blackened ash. A cold sound rustled in the trees Pulling limbs. The smoke rose. The smoke rose. It'd come to make a mess of things And throw a storm of burnt flakes, Lifting to the air the floating world, To let them go silent into the ground Where all things make work of coming back. I lay in the ground, wait, lonely for you. My hair grows, nails grow out And I count them as they go One, two, three, four, five, six Break into air. Set themselves between the blades of grass,