| Song | Crowquill |
| Artist | Circle Takes the Square |
| Album | As the Roots Undo |
| 作曲 : Circle Takes The Square | |
| Nothing's so lucid as the promise of dreams, but these pills we found just make me sleep. | |
| There's nothing quite so pure as the written word my dear, so lets have ourselves a little poem. | |
| Until the will to speak loses urgency. | |
| Our animal indecency in print is so blase. | |
| Its about the bell tower, at the golden hour. | |
| Angel of the spires climbs here steel cage staircase spine, angle of desire. | |
| Ascend the wrought iron, one by one, wrung by wrung. | |
| Is it the rising roof line that makes me feel so swallowed whole, or the way my body barely pricks the sky, the same as a century's worth of virgin's blood that's passed through my longing veins, scheming to convince my aching mind that pleasure's got nothing on the miracle of need. | |
| Nothing's so purile as meter and rhyme when you can't see the ground from that ledge and this perch is so far, far from the nest. | |
| Gravity doesn't grant me the privilege of failure my bough never breaks | |
| I don't stumble into anything so | |
| I climb and | |
| I carve my initials in the bark with that feather | |
| I found but its all so contrived. | |
| My genes didn't bless me with the foresight of a sage but | |
| I know how this will end, in apologies and ink on the page. | |
| A slowly constructed crow quilled confession of my spirit to all of you, black waterproof ink scars the board, so hot-pressed, pristine and pure. | |
| A slowly constructed manifestation of "to tremble", as base as a bridge in a song and less like the poem that | |
| I promised you. | |
| Nothing's so lurid as haiku-detat on sidewalks in white outlined chalk, all | |
| I've got is this ink smeared lines. | |
| With our voices in harmony, the offering, of a crow quilled threnody. |
| zuò qǔ : Circle Takes The Square | |
| Nothing' s so lucid as the promise of dreams, but these pills we found just make me sleep. | |
| There' s nothing quite so pure as the written word my dear, so lets have ourselves a little poem. | |
| Until the will to speak loses urgency. | |
| Our animal indecency in print is so blase. | |
| Its about the bell tower, at the golden hour. | |
| Angel of the spires climbs here steel cage staircase spine, angle of desire. | |
| Ascend the wrought iron, one by one, wrung by wrung. | |
| Is it the rising roof line that makes me feel so swallowed whole, or the way my body barely pricks the sky, the same as a century' s worth of virgin' s blood that' s passed through my longing veins, scheming to convince my aching mind that pleasure' s got nothing on the miracle of need. | |
| Nothing' s so purile as meter and rhyme when you can' t see the ground from that ledge and this perch is so far, far from the nest. | |
| Gravity doesn' t grant me the privilege of failure my bough never breaks | |
| I don' t stumble into anything so | |
| I climb and | |
| I carve my initials in the bark with that feather | |
| I found but its all so contrived. | |
| My genes didn' t bless me with the foresight of a sage but | |
| I know how this will end, in apologies and ink on the page. | |
| A slowly constructed crow quilled confession of my spirit to all of you, black waterproof ink scars the board, so hotpressed, pristine and pure. | |
| A slowly constructed manifestation of " to tremble", as base as a bridge in a song and less like the poem that | |
| I promised you. | |
| Nothing' s so lurid as haikudetat on sidewalks in white outlined chalk, all | |
| I' ve got is this ink smeared lines. | |
| With our voices in harmony, the offering, of a crow quilled threnody. |