nothing conscious

The city permits your deceit because it tells its own lies.  
When you veil the truth in a wood of swaying sycamores, 
leaves tremble in the air then wrinkle at your fakery. 
You cannot hide your heart from a clump of clover. 

When you veil the truth in a wood of swaying sycamores, 
nature only feels the breath behind your clever words.    
You cannot hide your heart from a clump of clover.  
Each field knows another corner of your mind. 

Nature only feels the breath behind your clever words. 
Rivers contain the sense of a million bygone hearts. 
Each field knows another corner of your mind. 
In urban bricks, on loveless kerbs, there is nothing conscious.  

Rivers contain the sense of a million bygone hearts. 
The city permits your deceit because it tells its own lies.  
In the urban bricks, on loveless kerbs, there is nothing conscious.   
The city permits your deceit because it tells its own lies.