Roots...

When the roots of the tree Are as cold as can be When the wind and the sea Are the moth and the bee When the rays of the sun Lick your skin With its tongue And the grass with its green And the grass with its green And the shine with its sheen And the shine with its sheen And the trains with their tracks And the spines with their backs And your sway with its slow And the wind with its blow And your scream with its sound I don't play rock and roll And the people with their lungs And the people with their paws If the sky were a stone Made of lips, made of bones Count my teeth, keep the time --- Roots... - Devendra Banhart