I will scrape a field of clay to preserve your house of stone. With ocean shells, I’ll peel away until I’m digging with bare bones,
And while you hide inside, pilgrims rage and writhe. Stone-cut arrows fly past your safe wall, but don’t mind me, ‘cause I will be collecting driftwood by the sea, for higher fences; happy homes.
Soft and safe in the sand, I will bake beneath the sun. If I give all I can, will you take the rest and run? ‘Cause as the moon burns bright, I can hear the hounds at night, crying wildly just for you, and if I turn my head, I can hear just what you said, that you could never love me too.
Buried now in the land, the remains of what we had.