Where do you go
When you find the path covered in snow?
Impenetrable snow, a foggy haze obscuring
Your direction in the month of May.
That whitewashed blanket, all the same.
Heavy fall - heavy fall -
Little flakes are heavy when their numbers grow.
Crippled by decision, you're buried in the snow,
Unearthed in that petrified sleep,
"Why is there snow in May?" frozen on your lips
And that late, late stranger, wandering that path
Clear in the dead of winter
Will answer you, but it will be too late, you know,
It will be too late.
And though you will not hear, I will tell you here
He will say
"Be glad it wasn't the dingoes."
And then he'll move on
And then you would think (if you could think)
That that was a stupid and anticlimactic (unhelpful) thing to say.
Yet simple, you'd think after a while (if you could think)
The two don't go hand in hand,
But simplicity is better bedfellows with profundity than pretentiousness ever was.
(Pretense was the one with the fancy toys to mask the fact he had no idea how to please)