If only we know, boss, what the stones and rain and flowers say.Maybe they call -- call us -- and we don’t hear them.When will people’s ears open, boss?When shall we have our eyes open to see?When shall we open our arms to embrace everything -- stones, rain, flowers, and men?What d'you think about that, boss?And what do your books have to say about it.
Quietly, help me to clear.
Hold me in your wings
that I may trust.
In darkness, surrender.
My own way tortured.
Better, a listening prayer.