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In my heart, I can still feel |
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Every turn of the tractor wheel. |
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Budded furrows cut across the hillside, |
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Over the fields in the sunshine |
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And it hurt, but I still grew |
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With every clumsy punch I threw. |
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Up in anger, at the empty summer sky - |
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I saw the world from the underside. |
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And when the worm began to turn, |
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As it squirmed in the palm of my hand; |
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I began to understand . . . |
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Why it is, |
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The worm forgives the plough. |
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In my heart I can still feel, |
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Every turn of the tractor wheel. |
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As we cower in the shadow of the plow, |
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Chewing us up and spitting us out |
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As we fall our way back down |
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Into the earth and underground, |
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I discover that even a little worm |
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Has its ways of taking revenge on the world. |
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And when the worm began to turn, |
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As it squirmed in the palm of my hand; |
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I began to understand . . . |
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Why it is, |
|
The worm forgives the plough. |
|
Why it is, |
|
The worm forgives the plough. |
