| There’s none to call the wind a liar
|
| Save those whose limbs can flow as fast
|
| Can creep up on unwatchful truth
|
| And pluck her sleeves, distract her eyes
|
| And leave in place the fitting image
|
| Burnished bright with the rub of easy belief
|
| The deafest ears hear falsehood’s bell
|
| A-tolling in the Belfry
|
| The loudest tongue is his
|
| Whose ear is untuned to what’s likely
|
| And thus the knowing spark
|
| Is fanned into the mindless flame
|
| Denouncing all across its path
|
| It blots all trace of blame
|
| Only the blind man touches a hand
|
| And feels a heart afire
|
| Only the blind man sees so well
|
| He can call the wind a liar, liar, liar, liar
|
| Behold the boomerang
|
| Returns riding before the wind
|
| History written afresh
|
| As the beginning becomes the end, end, end, end
|
| Only the blind man touches a hand
|
| And feels the heart afire
|
| Only the blind man sees so well
|
| He can call the wind a liar, liar, liar, liar
|
| Behold the boomerang
|
| Returns riding before the wind
|
| History written afresh
|
| As the beginning becomes the
|
| Beginning becomes the end |