if I were a snail
I would follow the sun’s pale
towards a forgotten place
where we would live and waste;

oh, blue boy, do not fret
I would yell through the wet
of his tears as I make my trail
up his crooked arm, a simple snail

my shell was neither there nor here,
as the world is neither cheer nor drear,
so do not worry, I said to he
as the boy took us to a tree

the tree was dying, sad and gray,
swaying lonesome on this forgotten day,
and I, the snail, peered at his brain
as the earth began its gentle crying rain,

it promised fortune, it promised sorrow,
it spoke of dreams, high and low,
and the boy turned to I, whispering why
it was that he did solemnly cry

it was simply for the reasons we
may express anger, or shock, or fear, or glee,
all because we really know
what it’s like to live and grow

it was because time will go on
past this empty dusk to a glorious dawn
where maybe one day will come harmonious joy
between every gentle snail and every living boy.