Got to fulfill the book

All knowledge is contained in a small space
between two boards or else between two ears;
pages foxed with time, hairs grey with years.
A double-folded letter serves to mark the place
where we stopped reading, where the simple grace
of honest laughter served to end the tears
drawn by the saddest tale, where all our fears
were instantly dispelled by one embrace.
The story's swiftly told, it's one we know
and have for years retold within our hearts,
but what is heard rings different on each ear.
The book will close, our times will have to go,
each of us knows that we have played our parts,
the last page will be stained by a single tear.

return to life

the buds are red on the awakening tree
winter is in retreat and we're quite glad
the task this day is not to feel but be

it isn't what we've come here now to see
in other places snow still drives them mad
the buds are red on the awakening tree

the yearly cycle will issue its decree
in all due time for we've been too long sad
the task this day is not to feel but be

i wake to coffee but would rather wake to tea
still that in its place is not really so bad
the buds are red on the awakening tree

i look outside and see the shadows flee
spring's on the way in joyous colours clad
the task this day is not to feel but be

perhaps today we'll go out on a spree
this is no time to be depressed or sad
the buds are red on the awakening tree
the task this day is not to feel but be

solemn declaration

at last the war has ended with no shout
of victory and no groans from those who lost
instead we count the human and material cost
and wonder what the whole thing was about
we ask for nothing not even the redoubt
where one last regiment perished in frost
or the long bay which by a storm was tossed
everyone today wants to be the good scout
the waste of life and money does not matter
what we have done here we will not forget
our worthless hides are good enough for us
if we ask the hard questions we might shatter
the fragile peace and that is cause to fret
all of our kind seem to have missed the bus

here are the rules

behind the mask is empty space just air
and light or dark depending on the time
nothing at all flashy just completely clear
free of all dirt and sweat and even slime

the false fruit is red a duller red the gods
that no one worships light and shadow fill
the spaces on this desk and no long odds
against their being the same on the hill

beyond the house the sunset pearly sky
the shadow rising to consume all space
that we can see or touch that's not a lie
the long lines fill on every human face

the world is calm and far beyond the sea
new shoots appear on the gnarly world tree

the boundaries are set

all knowledge is contained in matching pain
to pleasure removing for a while the old desire
while each and every one walks in the rain

the moment comes when we have lost all strain
we're burned or cleansed in the returning fire
all knowledge is contained in matching pain

what seems a loss becomes a disguised gain
what seems no music is played upon the lyre
while each and every one walks in the rain

i've crossed dark seas set foot on land again
in this new place there's neither serf nor squire
all knowledge is contained in matching pain

the meaning of my words is clear and plain
each who denies it shall be proved a liar
while each and every one walks in the rain

not to speak out would go against the grain
the better songs will never reach the choir
all knowledge is contained in matching pain
while each and every one walks in the rain

palms of victory

we can't require our men to cross the hill
all of our hopes have been sent back to start
these are the victims of our great goodwill

we're most afraid of when we'll get the bill
that won't be a good thing for each old heart
we can't require our men to cross the hill

we've found the enemy's nothing but a shill
the cries for vengeance are a form of art
these are the victims of our great goodwill

the enemies we've conquered are not still
moving against us every blow must smart
we can't require our men to cross the hill

we've fed our followers just muck and swill
the bodies pass by piled up on each cart
these are the victims of our great goodwill

our guides and guardians have no real skill
those who seemed wisest only played a part
we can't require our men to cross the hill
these are the victims of our great goodwill

the magical ballad

listen to the stunning trumpets
as they cry out on the walls
listen to the music pour out
like a million waterfalls

name the sound and then you sing it
but your voice may not have range
let the music be unbounded
let all things begin to change

name the awful situations
that you want to end at once
no not let yourself be frightened
he who falters is the dunce

name the power that sets its limits
on the actions of your hand
do not bow to it nor worship
those to come will understand

in the end the magic powers
that we got from sacrifice
will not keep us from becoming
what we really hope is nice