june was tender

you can still see her

swinging in the moon-scythe

like spirits or ghosts

that nobody sees

that nobody believes in

june was tender

you can still see her



if the red-skin had been of flesh

he wouldn't have spent so many years

listening to june in the waves

if the red-skin had been of flesh

he wouldn't have spent so many years

listening to the voice that there wasn't



june would like to be

under the earth

like a beautiful stone-hand

white open

with the streched palm

on wich falling asleep

or at least

intimately thinking