Spring becomes summer,
just like before;
the days grow long,
the wind blows high.
These are the days
some try to ignore.
These are the days, when grown men cry.
It's figures and profits and losses
to some,
and a more or less white lie.
To some, it is fathers
with nothing to leave
to their sons.
These are the days, when grown men cry.
The water is black,
it coats feather and fin
and all that it touches will die.
The water is black,
and eleven
are already dead.
These are the days when grown men cry.
Spring becomes summer,
for some,
and for some, no price is too high.
And now the black water
is all some will leave
to their sons.
These are the days, when grown men cry.


Salon.com
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