One of the scribes was taken tonight.

One of the seers, one of our own.

One of the prophets will write no more lines

in radical rhymes

nor preach them to people like us.

He struggled against his emptying days,

though yearned for contentment and calm.

Thought he had lost that angry young man,

but McGarrigle – words never die;

they’re beyond a stillness of pulse.

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I entered the cage instead of a wild beast,

Burned out my term and moniker by nail in barrack,

lived by the sea side and played the roulette,

had dinner, hell knows with whom, in a frock coat.

From the height of a glacier I watched half of the world,

three times was drowning and twice was ripped.

Left the country in which I was nursed.

A city can be made out of...

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