herders

mischief is made by those who hate all peace

and want us all within hard walls and gates

with loudest words and after harsh debates

they'll order silence and demand we cease

turbulent thoughts that challenge their caprice

command each soul into narrow estates

and keep each heart distinct from its best mates

just so that love and light may both decrease

they call it summer when they see it snow

mistake the cold for some redeeming balm

and bid us all accept the freezing rain

out of the north claiming they see it glow

with ready warmth they tell us all is calm

that all is gentle that we're past all pain

first directions

who saw the flame and saw us put it out

was not the first but fell soon into line

marching in order that was the design

both for the wayward and the most devout

seemingly magic but we dare to pout

noting this sourness far from the divine

where modern forces just cannot combine

and older strength no longer is so stout

assert what's true in spite of all this heat

it will not matter no one will be told

the proper story what is is to fail

in our sad hour this token of defeat

is valued more than coin of hoarded gold

while honesty remains so long on sale

in no great haste

in no great haste to change the solemn art

that deals with those who cannot render ease

in modern terms we make a florid start

presenting our regards upon our knees

as if our thoughts were villain amputees

regarding with some horror how the strain

of vision reaching through this veil of rain

has no effect on motion nor on rate

all in the end must seep into the brain

where only losers claim to lead the state

 

both rich and poor rub shoulders in the mart

while finding nothing that could truly please

an honest mind or else a yearning heart

since all the market has is hopping fleas

and some lost objects baking in the breeze

there's not a single value to retain

and all our hope might just go down the drain

as laughing gargoyles seem to contemplate

you cannot speak except now to complain

where only losers claim to lead the state

 

no one today would ever give a fart

for decent laws or honest high decrees

the vultures wait until the wolves depart

then each devours the carrion that it sees

there's no means left the monster to appease

just throw another turd upon the wain

since we have read the signal very plain

the door is shut and rescue's come too late

all that is left is one more ugly stain

where only losers claim to lead the state

 

prince as you look out from the morning train

you'll see the same old shadow once again

don't think of it as duty nor as fate

that's just a path that leads you to more pain

where only losers claim to lead the state

moonset

go up the rise and look down on the sea

ten miles away the moon is setting now

this is a moment which will long allow

warm recollection both of bird and tree

there's nothing here right now would disagree

that time is perfect but we can't endow

life and eternity instead the plough

pushes it under where we cannot see

lost to us all and so left far behind

are all those things only half understood

but not then wanted since the childish voice

is not the speaker for the full-grown mind

nor can we tell yet what is truly good

when we are forced to make a final choice

poui

pale yellow blooms under a silver tree

out of a legend that we do not know

this warm reminder with its pallid glow

 

absent all anger absent too all glee

for a short season we absorb the show

pale yellow blooms under a silver tree

 

so magic fills the air and what we see

is all the ground covered in golden snow

a lovely moment if we let it be

pale yellow blooms under a silver tree

past fairyland

no mystery nor reason for the day

to start so simply since the bright alarm

brought us to wakefulness with simple charm

while this last warden had now news to say

but that there were some causes for delay

and none for haste but we are past all harm

of foolish words nor may the time disarm

our urgent thoughts we must be on our way

onward to where the final tolling bell

cannot be heard and then so far beyond

that on our senses we cannot depend

who will not know if any live to tell

the meaning and the substance of our bond

or who will care that any reach the end

now so forgotten

a moment's vision just a little nudge

of seeing what the normal eye can't see

in moving time just so we might agree

on one fast rule but no you will not budge

from that position nor will you begrudge

what we assume is given us for free

to stay or go just so each has to be

the honest broker and the silent judge

this course of pain is now so well begun

you take the measure and devise a trap

knowing that soon the true moment will come

since each desire has in us one swift run

a journey noted well upon the map

and valued now at a gigantic sum