Surrender the search for words
in the early morning pain of dawn,
let traffic hum and rain-town birds
steal quiet thoughts and see them born…
imagine forests damp with dew
the roar of waves upon a shore,
a loving hand that guided you
in times when you were lost before…
and in that place find peace and calm
in moments free of earthly stress,
to soothe your wounds of hurt and harm
that you might heal to feel them less.
All natures colours fade and blow away…
though winters womb is safe and warm,
faded tunics on battlefields, pink and grey…
beneath the walls of Hougoumont Farm.
Ploughed are the fields of soil and men…
where earth and blood like Lazarus rise.
that what has passed be born again,
beneath the lie of unchanging skies.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r3vXS6sgBV4
There must be war to end a war,
if there’s no war
what is end for?
While there’s no war there is no end,
if there’s no end
no help we’ll send.
The end of war is made of rules,
the kind of rules
for blinkered fools.
Made up by those who all agree,
the end of war
can never be.
Sea Lochs run deep on western shores
where the broken timidly retreat,
where executives turned bar-room bores,
their dullard stories repeatedly repeat.
We’ve heard it all before
their lives like boomerangs,
that’ll knock them to the floor
awakening anguished pangs…
Here, the workers immerse themselves
in natures taciturn,
enlightened it is they themselves
that from greater forces learn…
where wind and waters blow and swell
till bloated egos drown,
there is no word that man might tell
to tame The Verdant Crown.