You are the bread and the knife, The crystal goblet and the wine... -Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife, the crystal goblet and the wine. You are the dew on the morning grass and the burning wheel of the sun. You are the white apron of the baker, and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard, the plums on the counter, or the house of cards. And you are certainly not the pine-scented air. There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge, maybe even the pigeon on the general's head, but you are not even close to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show that you are neither the boots in the corner nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know, speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world, that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star, the evening paper blowing down an alley and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees and the blind woman's tea cup. But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife. You are still the bread and the knife. You will always be the bread and the knife, not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine

Some time when the river is ice ask me mistakes I have made. Ask me whether what I have done is my life. Others have come in their slow way into my thought, and some have tried to help or to hurt: ask me what difference their strongest love or hate has made.

I will listen to what you say. You and I can turn and look at the silent river and wait. We know the current is there, hidden; and there are comings and goings from miles away that hold the stillness exactly before us. What the river says, that is what I say.

the sky is grey the sand is grey and the ocean is grey

and i feel right at home in this stunning monochrome alone in my way

i smoke and i drink and every time i blink i have a tiny dream

but as bad as i am i'm proud of the fact that i'm worse than i seem

what kind of paradise am i looking for? i've got everything i want and still i want more maybe some tiny shiny key will wash up on the shore

you walk through my walls like a ghost on tv you penetrate me

and my little pink heart is on its little brown raft floating out to sea

and what can i say but i'm wired this way and you're wired to me

and what can i do but wallow in you unintentionally what kind of paradise am i looking for? i've got everything i want and still i want more maybe some tiny shiny key will wash up on the shore

regretfully i guess i've only got three simple things to say: why me? why this now? why this way? with overtones ringing and undertows pulling away under a sky that is grey on sand that is grey by an ocean that's grey

what kind of paradise am i looking for? i've got everything i want and still i want more maybe some tiny shiny key will wash up on the shore