June was tender
   you can still see her
   swinging in the moon-scythe
   like spirits or ghosts
   that nobody sees
   that nobody believes in
   june was tender
   you can still see her
  
   if the red-skin had been of flesh
   he wouldn't have spent so many years
   listening to june in the waves
   if the red-skin had been of flesh
   he wouldn't have spent so many years
   listening to the voice that there wasn't
  
   june would like to be
   under the earth
   like a beautiful stone-hand
   white open
   with the streched palm
   on wich falling asleep
   or at least
   intimately thinking