As words are crystal and tears are gold,
And the morning’s sun is often cold,
I long for a hand I still may hold,
Though dumb that longing is, I’m told.

The gyres revolve, the centres split,
In church the dead man’s candle’s lit,
As someone’s soldier scores another hit,
For living’s only for the fit.

Yet down inside within these arcane bones,
Beneath the demons’ deadly loam,
I still perceive though far I roam,
Some distant archetypal home.

I see the fissile comets streak away,
I know the next could be the final day,
And it’s into space I bow my head and pray,
Whatever nameless price I have to pay.

But, though “but” be everywhere defiled,
Like the gut-born pleading of some wayward child.
“But” as once I felt and once I smiled,
I will at last be reconciled.

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