歌词
Trunks become throats, roots become lips, leaves become fingers
No longer do they move at the mercy of the wind
The black water strokes upon the shore with newfound intention
Noticed by the wooden giant
For they exist now together as do the stones that divide them
They hear the wails of far less ancient origin, of caustic anger and scorn
His iron tongue scrapes across the stone and against the roughness of the bark
He is the clouds, the sea, the soil
It evades his grasp, cloaking itself in furls of silken roots
As the water bathes its tendrils in a purifying mist
Shifting to vapor, the leaves breathe him in
Latching to the helices to flay its identity