The voice of death, the voice of love and the voice of art.
Your whole life spent out of kilter,
Every day out of whack,
So when the storm hit
And everything went kerflooey,
We were ill-prepared.
No going back.
Now, if a little dreaming is dangerous
Is the cure to dream more?
O! I wish you were here:
On this sad, spring day
When all the words that ever were
Just drained away
Leaving me aghast.
With nothing to say.
This inner city cul-de-sac is littered
With the paltry remains of a man
Who spent his sacred time
À la recherche du temps perdu:
Doing what he could,
Doing what she can-can.
That would never do
For the ghost-dancers of the Sioux
Who soared into eternity
As if every word they ever knew
Rhymed with blood.
Metal door locks are not required
For, from today, even the prisons have retired
From the fray, lockdown has its way,
We are transferred to where the sky is a placid place of pellucid blue
And where the last lonely eagle
Flies, screaming, in search of her broken nest,
And where every dog has her summer-scented day
Lying in the shade in his own inimitable way.