redirect it towards the river, my sunflowers wilt
It is inconsequential, the canal may feed a drying river
Somewhere downstream a boy may want to put paper boats
Maybe find joy, or whatever it's called
I will probably set fire to my field, regardless
Those sunflowers never were to be grown, I shouldn't have let them
But I will change its fate, not hold false hope
This land is drying, is a truth I hold
I was built to comfort, not to be
So be it,
So let it,
The yellows and my heart can rustle along
In a bit
soon
Wait for it
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