But how, how can I go? How do I go?
If I took my own way out
I'd flow like the forest river would
Across the path of least resistance
For I find I am longing after Simple.
The simplicity of picking up a branch
Downstream, and whittling down
The brown bark until it is young
And dark and thin, like no other
In these shaking upturned palms.
The brown bark until it is young
And dark and thin, like no other
In these shaking upturned palms.
Whittle down my words and
Make them clean and clear at last.