all so distant now

 

this is the root of every sort of cry
you can't dig deeper for you have hit rock
your arm has felt the whole force of the shock
and each of us who knew how to apply
the proper treatment when things went awry
knew better than to laugh or fleer and mock
so many things to do when time must dock
the tails of those who're neither swift nor shy
this is the censorship of sober mind
a measure of the passion we must bring
to all the tasks left in the fading light
those who are watching will not be too kind
they are not here to listen to us sing
and know too well that soon it will be night

no more a garden

 i want to name the flowers and the sun
those are the tasks i am best suited for
this realm comes under both the harp and gun

it does not matter who has lost or won
we do our jobs and then we do some more
i want to name the flowers and the sun

the sudden stroke will kill or it will stun
there is no pause at any open door
this realm comes under both the harp and gun

you have not thought that what we did was fun
yet nothing here was what you would abhor
i want to name the flowers and the sun

there is not one thing that you have let run
of all the matters that we knew before
this realm comes under both the harp and gun

that was the certainty now we are done
a moment while we add the final score
i want to name the flowers and the sun
this realm comes under both the harp and gun

not the right gate

 

you name yourself the keeper of the past
but cannot see the true passage of time
nor hear the steady ticktock and the chime

we know just how much value's in the cast
and how much effort's put into the climb
you name yourself the keeper of the past

the true account's not given at the last
nor is the honest sentiment sublime
the simplest challenge will turn out a crime
you name yourself the keeper of the past

advice to youth

 

the proper magic leads you to this place
there is no hesitation when you speak
a single syllable explodes to grace

all signs of weariness must leave your face
and your heart bear up under all critique
the proper magic leads you to this place

you've reached the culmination of the chase
and found the spring of the refreshing creek
a single syllable explodes to grace

at last you are the winner of the race
and know exactly what it is you seek
the proper magic leads you to this place

no reason now to bow or to abase
yourself before the gods upon the peak
a single syllable explodes to grace

the joys that now you find you must embrace
serve to protect you from both strong and weak
the proper magic leads you to this place
a single syllable explodes to grace

novus ordo saeclorum

 this marks the spot at which the music died
you laugh to hear the story then lament
too soon you know begins the swift descent
and not a one can bear the long wild ride
you have no friend in whom you could confide
and no allies to show or represent
either the process or the last event
and this is too much even for your pride
so much depends upon a word or sign
and you have not enough to hang a flag
or wave a placard at the coming horde
there's not a hope that change will be benign
the ones to be are full of shout and brag
and we who go have left a most bare board

an ordinary magic

 we turn our words into the correct spell
no one can doubt our glory or our glamour
the bucket only knows what's in the well

the gold's no longer hidden in the shell
truth is now uttered without any stammer
we turn our words into the correct spell

beyond the moment we may feel the swell
as all the ages cry out in one clamour
the bucket only knows what's in the well

what we don't know no one might now compel
neither from honest folk nor any shammer
we turn our words into the correct spell

what's not concrete will have the time to jell
before it's set in place by force of rammer
the bucket only knows what's in the well

so much to do and so much more to tell
in proper language and complex grammar
we turn our words into the correct spell
the bucket only knows what's in the well

the woods in spring

the urgent haste of life to have its turn

luxuriant forest eager for the light

angry at coming of the so short night

 

the stars in silence far too distant burn

brutally cold indifferent to the plight

the urgent haste of life to have its turn

 

leaves and flowers eagerly now yearn

for every moment of the day's delight

and hate returning of the winter night

the urgent haste of life to have its turn