There was a man who used to live by the ocean, he never set foot in the sea, it made him nervous that the water was always in motion, and he feared the creatures who swam beneath. And when I asked him how he'd ended up there, above a world he would never know, he said that he'd driven all the way across America, and when he got to the edge, there was nowhere left to go. Nowhere left to go, nowhere left to go, nowhere left to go, nowhere left to go, nowhere left to go. He said that nothing lives long, only the earth and the mountains, as he quoted Black Kettle's Death Song. Words dripping off into the emptiness of this great land where we've never belonged. And while the frontiers are ever expanding, our living rooms fall into disarray. No one seems interested in fixing what they've broken, they just sweep the pieces into the bushes and slip away. Slowly slip away, slowly slip away, slowly slip away, slowly slip away. Slowly slip away, slowly slip away, slowly slip away, slowly slip away. And now he and I watch the foxglobe grow through the clear cut, where a forest once grew high and wild. For what is a funeral without flowers, and ten thousand tombstones reaching for the sky? Reaching for the sky, reaching for the sky, reaching for the sky, reaching for the sky. Reaching for the sky, reaching for the sky, reaching for the sky. Reaching for the sky, reaching for the sky, reaching for the sky. Reaching for the sky, reaching for the sky, reaching for the sky.