And you may scream the stillborn scream
And you may shut your eyes and try to wake the dream
And you might thrust your hand out in defiance
Or roar the roar of wounded giants –
But you won’t get your loved one back,
Or turn the grinning terror back
Or slow the fleeting second into precious minutes
Or turn those dying numbers into winners.
Alas, this clay may never turn to gold.
There’s no more magic in this world.
And there’s no god to interfere
To smite your enemies with love and fear,
At least not such a god, and not like that,
And no such devil either, for a’ that –
However many souls you offer
To put into their empty coffers.
Forgive me friend, but truth be told,
There is no quick salvation in this world.
And afterwards your daydreams will devour
What you’d had done with all those special powers
Or what you’d tell the grinning idiots the next time round.
But will it differ next time round?
You could be left there standing just the same
Your mouth will mouth those silent words again…
So come my friend we must be bold.
There is no easy answer to this world.
… I want to soar at speed across the valley and embrace it in one single gasp.
It stretches out beneath and in front and I strain to fill its depth and breadth.
But I know I need to descend slowly and on foot,
and hope that I can grasp a mere part
from pebbles, clumps of grass I see along the way –
And hope that I can still look up occasionally
from my stumbling feet
to see the horizon.
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