If only I could fix a point in space
If only I could find some space in time
Perhaps I would use the time to find me
Or find the guts to leave it all behind
They say that time stands still in times of heartache
But the clock with thirteen hands moves on and on
Watching a black cat crossing in frantic uncertainty
Crossing his chest saying soon we’ll all be gone
If only you could find the tools to fix me
If only we didn’t need these tools to breathe
We could watch our breath condensing slowly
Watching the plastic caskets against which we grieve
They say that a lonely magpie sews a seed of sorrow
Another sapling planted deep in the potters field
In a circle of salt we know the devil can’t move closer
But against the old north wind even salt will yield
