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