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