Little land so fresh and green,
strangers walk upon your head.
You gave your hands to keep it clean,
thumbs alive but eight are dead.
In their wooden box they lie,
made from your finest trees.
Upon their graves I watched you cry,
leaves down with the breeze.
So now they sleep inside your heart,
their souls forever free.
Never again to be apart,
twas where they longed to be.
They are gone yet trouble lingers,
with the blackbirds song.
But once the hand has lost it's fingers,
the thumbs themselves grow strong.
Sunday, December 26, 2010