In the garden, in the park, on a bench, I sit.
   A newspaper floats on the breeze of this late summer.
   It is coming my way,
   I patiently wait.
  
   I see the sign, it's on the road
   and I think it's crazy
  
   In the garden, of the park, on a bench, I watch.
   The sandy feet of the children.
   Pearls of sweat run across their beautiful faces.
  
   You see the sign, it's on the road
   but I think you're crazy
  
   You are, you are the sign
   of my unrelief
  
   As I easily get inner contact with myself,
   I notice distress grabbing for my throat.
   It is time to reach out.
   To find something that isn't there,
  
   You see the signs, they're on the road
   but I think it's crazy
  
   You are, you are the sign
   of my unrelief