She was not the only one br But, she felt as if she was; br To take care of fleeting dreams br To love those delicate little things. br br They seem to move about with ease br But each time she condescends to reach br They move, swirl, curl up and seep br Into these black tars, they turn to sticky things. br br Then the oil man, with his ember hand br Dips his fist in the tar and br Ignites her dreams; her tears turn to sand. br br For each grain of sand that falls br A child dies, and a mother bawls.