Mira, Mira

The strongest drink I ever had to swallow was poured by the
 powers that be.
And advertised as: pure, distilled perspective - fermented 
fruit of the Knowledge Tree.
He said, "Mira, Mira, amigo!
This town's streets are paved with dead mens' stone. Mira, 
mira," and they pointed to the ground, "these streets are 
covered with clay people made six-hundred years ago. And 
they've been broken for so long no one remembers what 
they're for, our memories are short, especially yours. Do 
you remember my name?
I'm here to see you again."

The day I let it go was the day I drank with death in 
Mexico.

The drink I drunk, the think I thunk, and the trees of 
trunk agree that the tumble-weeds are following me and this
 is what they're saying.
They say, "mira, mira, amigo!
This town's streets are paved with dead mens' stone.
Mira, mira," and they pointed to the sound, "you can hear 
the wind coming around and as long as you roll along 
without digging your heels in or reaching for the rails you
 can't do what death entails without nothin' to hold onto. 
Do you remember my name? I'm here to see you again."

"Pobre, pobre, joven.
I am death in the shape of a man.
Let's drink to the end of all ends and we'll never take 
life for granted again."