High Plains My love Stretches into the sky A terrible dryness on her lips, but still Harbors so many of god’s children Waits breathless for the snow That will melt on her belly And seep into secret caverns So her children don’t thirst My Love Is torn by men With steel in dirty fat peasant hands With dead eyes and guns and fences they bind her The poor, crawling on top of her Sucking My love Will be redeemed On that day.