How does sense of living exist
If we live a life hanging on a tree.
Would anyone mind looking up
The way they used to be?
Tickin’ of the clocks may sound sad,
But life, without hand, is bad.
If pearls and diamonds were on the tree,
Anyone might look up, carefree.
I’d rather cry a river of tears,
Rather than to bring a knife with me
If ain’t seeking sense in a tree,
Where else I can be?