Lyrics

Warmth activates the sugars, and sugars rally in the gorse, in the flowers it sees with, the scent that is its voice,                 the nontoxic fragrant wood good for cutlery, and for burning, though it flares out quickly, unlike smoldering peat. Are they converting sugars of their loneliness to conviction? Burning their sugars on the wicks of their frailty, one can nearly read by them,                 as Fillan in his own cave read by the light of  his broken arm, one of the horrible miracles of the times —                 St. Fillan, the Human Flashlight,                 patron of the mentally ill — an unenviable between-worlds position.                 Whereas marsh orchids, fully in this one, change their clothes out in the open, hard candy in their mouths, the sugars plump, round, smooth,                 unlike seawater's jagged molecules, which when drunk like anger will tear through you. Like bitterness, desiccate you.                 To survive, suffering burns the strength of the afflicted. If, left in Fillan's cave, bonds of the stricken were loosened by morning, his spirit had intervened to convert the molecules of their madness,                 and still later did smugglers stash there some of those little things that make life worth living.                 The highly edible sweet gorse flowers produce a coconut-flavored wine if one enjoys the luxury of time, and a tea prescribed in cases of uncertainty,                 for those who appear to have lost all hope.