Because all flesh is like grass, All grass is like flesh. And all flesh, like grass. The grass has withered, And the flesh fell off. Be patient now, dear grass, Until the future of the flesh. Behold, a storm is waiting. To bear down, the earth is thirst, And is patient about grass, And is morning rain and evening rain. So be patient. The grass has withered, And the flesh has fallen off. The word will never come. Never come. Eternal joy. (_After Brahms and his mother_, after Brian, too).