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To the coyote lying dead on the side of the highway: |
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I've been through your land countless times |
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Without asking your leave. |
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But now it seems that I am free to go on my way |
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While you would left there broken |
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With only burning father sun |
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To grieve and bleach your bones |
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As white as the moon. |
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As white as the yellow moon. |
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To the vulture flying low along the line of the highway: |
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You won't have to wait very long |
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To eat your fill. |
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'Cause the river of grey that divides the horizon |
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Will surely leave a carcass in its wake, |
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A twisted golden braid of fur and meat, |
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Turning black, |
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Black as the road. |
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As black as the grey road. |
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And the grey road is the great worm |
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That meets itself on the far side of the world. |
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And the grey road is the great worm |
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That eats its tail beneath our feet. |
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To the man selling blankets on the side of the highway: |
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The sign says you're friendly and nice, |
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And I have no doubt that's true. |
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But one of these mornings you gonna rise up singing, |
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A song that your grandfather knew |
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but your father forgot |
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And buried |
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And was paved over by the grey road, |
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The same road that you walk now |
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As nice as a man. |
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As nice as the last man. |
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And the grey road is the great worm |
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That meets itself on the far side of the world. |
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And the grey road is the great worm |
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That eats its tail beneath our feet. |
