I am a man now. 
Pass your hand over my brow. 
You can feel the place where the brains grow. 

I am like a tree, 
From my top boughs I can see 
The footprints that led up to me. 

There is blood in my veins 
That has run clear of the stain 
Contracted in so many loins. 

Why, then, are my hands red 
With the blood of so many dead? 
Is this where I was misled? 

Why are my hands this way 
That they will not do as I say? 
Does no God hear when I pray? 

I have no where to go 
The swift satellites show 
The clock of my whole being is slow, 

It is too late to start 
For destinations not of the heart. 
I must stay here with my hurt.