Blessed are the Bonds
i sing the song of sinking ships
in a soft, sleeping sea.
a song of slow rises and falls,
a song where refrains are only restraints-
some say a tired ocean pulls everything apart,
others say it's finally all coming together.
in this song, the rhythms
are feet on these decks;
children run, and lovers dance
hands that reach for each other and
into the air for notes make these cymbals ride,
and when they are pulled back to their sides
with nothing but ideas for tomorrow,
those hands make these cymbals crash.
and in this song, fingers on strings
are in search of a truth of some kind
and we live in the light of the notes
that we strike.
and in songs like this one,
they all blend together,
seeking out others like themselves...
and in this song
we find a way to follow all or none,
to accept these ends or defy them -
but those notes hammer on...
and when no one remembers where these
ships were built,
or knows whether they found home,
their legacy lives on in songs like this.
and when you sing this song,
those lovers will dance,
and those truths will be found..
those notes and cymbals,
and oceans and fingers will rise up again,
though now, they fade.
though now, they fade.
the Tomb Song
some requiem must be composed
for spirits still weighted to this world.
a man makes love to sorrow
when the sacred jaws of restlessness
bring him only burden
when his truths are moths in mist
they whisper "oh! apotheosis. oh holy bulb of light."
he learns that it is shadow, not just darkness
that gives form to night.
but before we're gone we will put some definition to freedom, to the divine
our throats, our strings all wild in vibration
and with that sound we will bring the air to flames!
and those flames devour all!
we fear not the flood, we fear not the drought
we fear not the peak, nor the valley ensuing
we do not fear the song
we only fear its end
we only fear its consummation
when we were young
our mothers looked with our eyes
out and over everything
oh, those wide fields of tall wheat
and, oh, those busy streets
wet with the night,
and bright! with traffic lights
how they mean to inspire
how they mean to tell of a firm stand against time,
to tell the children that their lights can never fade,
and the words we heard our father's speak
were a thread so sweet
it is covered in ants, still strung over our heads, across this land
but now, such strange fates!
our dearest sweetest hope has died,
how lovingly she held us as we slept
how motherly she cupped those tired hands over our waking eyes,
how she has grown so still, pouring softly the tears that we cry.
soon, friends, you must bury her in your chests as i have in mine
and rise, rise, rise, rise
for though the moments press now on our heels and households like the waves,
with a fearful vigil, we have turned to face the coming tides
only to find that such oceans have dried
oh fate, you were so unwise!
if our mothers have taught us anything, it is that there is no shame in a
but instead, a pale worldly beauty
so be tired, good children
be tired, but be strong, in a word: persevere
for the dimmer the light, the longer it shines when we are gone.
on that peak
we have caged god
in the glory of our gears
and a song rings out for the death at hand
for gods do not progress and a machine can not rejoice
that which can not die can not progress
the Water Song
though all hope's undone
all oceans have dried
it soon rains
rain, rain, rain!
and so, our reunion is across this,
a great, dry, golden place,
and, seeing that no man saves our souls,
save for those we truly know,
we look, with our mother's eyes
to each other,
we have seen that only her tears
could bring life here again.