Tell me--where do i begin? With your lips, with your hair or with your skin? All three fall as hard as stone Into the hour of the snow Tell me--what do i see first? The scythe, the sickle, or the curse? All three come up from the ground And spread, so pretty and so brown Tell me--what comes next? Is it the hour of love or the hour of the hex? Both thaw in summer but harden in the cold It's time to let them settle, and together they'll grow old Tell me--where do I leave off? With the scythe, the sickle, or the cloth? All three replenish what is gone The aftertaste of wormwood, the ending of a song