My Feet Can't Touch The Bottom
My feet can't touch the bottom.
My feet can't touch the bottom.
Let me reach down
with my legs.
No!
My feet can't touch the bottom.
My feet can't touch the bottom.
Let me dive down
a little.
No!
My feet can't touch the bottom,
My feet can't touch the bottom.
I guess it's just too deep.
My feet can't touch the bottom.
My feet can't touch the bottom.
As a poet I long to go back to the times
And out of my fog I walk there too
I slip out of my pack and search through the pockets
And low green clouds covering it all.
Paint the land in vague watercolors
Clearly defined in the center of the page.
Or tune my lute and pluck out notes
When the Chinese poets of the Tang Dynasty
Walked about noting the world.
In the valley of Guilin where the stone formations
Rise up like uncarved forgotten heads.
Smelling the fires, smoke mixed with soups,
Mist in the air, dew on the ground,
Huts in pockets like patches of wheat.
What shall I do to make the most of my time?
That splash and soak and blend together.
Then end it all with the black rock formations
Or write a descriptive poem with layers
That describe what 's here but announce deeper feelings.
That echo off the rocks a 3rd or 4th higher...
Then I exclaim, "Oh where's the time gone?"