Turn the Bells

The market-place has nothing to sell Left alone its awnings shiver Wind whilstles through the wood Fish teeth snapping in a river Peaks puncture the sky Like a child's icy toes Dipped in a stream That a few of us know And the clouds just a ripple? A shock from the impact? Shadows on the streets Look like veils at morning Ice blots in the stone cracks Where tears have fallen Oil by the bucket feeds flares to the heavens Offerings of incense, small bills and lemons Drumbeats in the caves and hearbeats in the huts Protectors unveiled for the first time in months You find some best friends We'll hold each other And I'll turn the bells I'll turn the bells The storm clouds pass, and everything's for sale The chattering of rapids, and the bartering of sunset Beads crunch like bones, through fingers and knuckles Poor hands pick cheap Quartz, in the quarries and cliff-ledge A group of sandalwood trees, with clotted blood covered dark The biker gangs smoking, on the edge of the lake The smoke like white horses, a white-eyed mistake There's spirits in the water, like photos in a box They're torn by the current, and crushed by the rocks You find some best friends We'll hold each other And I'll turn the bells I'll turn the bells