The song in his hand is nearly his last one
There's room for a righteous man, dead, on his throne
He holds, too, a candle
He'll wait for the light to land on something he's made
Or burn up his hand, and burn up the place
One old reaper, one yellow Charolais
One spring, one old coyote, and still
One songbird, weary the rain, who lights on my windowsill
Cannot trust, as the candle's defined him
In rest for a righteous man, surely alone
In light that'll bend and color him, then
Some lightning, some flooding in town
Some hail, wrecking the cane
Some storm cloud that reached o'er the land, in morning, was gone again
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