Winter 2002:
Of fischeries and wars yet to be

Dedication
             Dedication

The old man tending fischery near
    where a bard once sang.

Four horses, four fabulous riders;
     two now remain.

Of songs and things
Of drums and rings

of Dark Deep secrets kept 
   by the king and his guards.

... and yet ...

  


Minstrels, mimes and monsters blue,

steep the leaves of tomes
as leaves of tea.

And an old seer sees all, knows all;

but, tells only this...

          And then came the day
          when the rains would not fall.

 


COME!  Toil the heat,
       Tide your cool.

Kelvins lost, centigrade un-measured
Of foolish Kings who will not listen
the sage sayings of see-ings long gone.

"Stop" say the words.

"Stop" and think.

"Stop" and feel what you are doing to the world.

The world pauses on its axis,


but....

 


Come the boiling heated sulfur pits,

Come the burning of the forests,

Come the gashing of the earth.


Warnings given by Priest, Rabbi, and Mullah.

Cast aside.

(pause)

Ignored for present quarter's profit;

ignoring the prophets' warnings.


Nahum:  The gates of the rivers
        shall be opened, and
        the Palace shall be disolved.

John:  I am the voice of one crying 
       in the wilderness, make straight
       the way of the Lord.

The Dawn:  In the name of Allah, 
           the Beneficient,
           the Merciful.

           There is surely and an
           oath for thinking man.
          
           Enter thou my Garden.

And yet....

 


These three wise prophets could not be
heard over the grubbling and grambling
of coiners and counters of profit and
change,

over the roar of kings and crowds
for WAR!

And over the silence of indifference,
that was do un-utterably Deafen-ing
that even the Silence of THAT Spring
could not be heard.

A barren world, 
numbered three
orbits a distant star.

Even the winds and rocks 
     have nothing left to say.

And even a mis-understood
Devil is silent as "dragon of death";

he too,
now has no demesne to rule.

(pause)

IT IS THE END.

And yet...

 


Return oh cool, gentle healing rains.

Flow, flow, flow oh blue-clear rivers.

Oh sing, and chirp, and grunt
   small blue-green world.

Oh Land, Land, Land!

Cleared of this beast called MAN.

And now a new tribe called Mon,
has learned before its world 
be-fell its own foolish short-sight.

And, as an old poet lays down his
pen for the very last time,

he listens to the song of the world
-- satisfied that his job is done.

And now only to that final rest he
    goes.  

To 
     sleep 
            forever.


(sotto)  

and yet....