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No one thinks of the flowers No one thinks of the fish No one wants to believe that the garden is dying its heart swollen under the sun its mind draining of green memories slowly slowly and its senses rotting in seclusion Our garden is lonely. Yawning ... Waiting for an offering from an unknown rain cloud Our garden is lonely Our pond is empty. I fear an age that has lost it's heart I am frightened by the thought of so many futile hands by the image of so many estranged faces I think that the garden can be saved in a hospital I think I think And the garden's heart is swollen under the sun And its mind is slowly draining of green memories
Then the sun grew cold and blessings left the land grass dried in the fields fish withered in the seas and from then on the ground refused it's dead. no one thought about love anymore no one thought about greatness anymore and no one thought about anything anymore what endless emptiness the sun was dead and no one knew that the sad dove escaped from their hearts was called faith
Why should I stop? The birds have gone in search of waterfronts The horizon is vertical The horizon is vertical and it's movement fountain-like And gleaming stars orbit at the limits of sight The earth multiplies in the sky Linking tunnels weave through the turbulent air. And the day is an expanse that overflows The tiny mind of the newspaper worm
The summit of all forces is union Fusing with the sun's bright essence Flowing into light's reason It is natural that windmills fall Why should I stop? I will gather young sheaves of wheat And nurse them under my breast sound, sound, sound, only sound the sound of plant's outstretched longing to grow the sound of water's lucid desire to flow the sound of starlight pouring on soil's feminine skin the sound of the conception of meaning and the shared mind of expanding love. sound, sound, sound, only sound remains |
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From 'I Pity the garden'
