All things begin with what’s already been
Staying too small to see
An injected disease
On the skin of the beast
And our words are like hands
That never quite reach
All the things that will end with a where and a when
While the rest of the tribe
Well they’re still listening
For a wind that tells why
But most of the time
They can’t understand by definition
The place that we go
Laying down in the snow
Growing cold