Touch the spine of the flowers in the garden. Know in time, with their growth, they'll be starving. And when tha time has come, just hide away from here and we'll torch the fertile ground from which it came. Baby, could you suture up my ruptured mine? Whatever they're feeding me, I'm throwing it up at night, and something's eating me, laid deep in my guts. It's a parasite. I still return, cradled by these vengeful roots of Mother Earth; spirits churn somewhere in these trees, forever biting birch.