Afro Saxon Ballads

Whores, Thieves and Tax collectors














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Thieves.
 
Do you want to know
what the most beautiful sound in the World is?
It's the sound of a letter
being pushed beneath a cell door
Sounds like,
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
 

Brixton Beatitudes.

The Sermon on Electric Avenue.

The call of hawkers selling dodgy perfume

on the steps of Brixton Tube.

The office girls with their sensible lives

in their sensible shoes.

The beggars boozy congregation on benches

for they have no where else to go

The police-cadet who admires his uniform

reflected from the window of Woolworths,

the thief on the other side of the road

The stray dog fascinated by the bright red

of a coke can, pricks up its ears in terror,

to the screaming horns of passing cabs

The drug deals going down on

Coldharbour Lane where Rastafarians, staff in hand, predict not the fall

of Babylon but the stock market

Here East African housewives buy fish for their children their heads

covered in silk shawls of gold

Here schools boys who play truant sneak into the Ritzy and are

already experts on Fellini may they win Oscars and accolades and

extend the art

A road sweeper who always wears a flower pinned to his over-alls,

listens to whale-song on his Walkman; he dreams about mermaids,

sea-shells, and oceans warm.

Old ladies, at bus-stops complain about the weather, they blame

global warming and New-Labour.

A Japanese girl takes pictures on Electric Lane

market traders smiling pose for the camera

she bows in thanks and they wave back to her

"No problem sister"

She’s six months over-stayed on a six month visa

and twelve months in the city makes you Londoner, she’s already part

of the picture.

Here white girls with black babies

get black looks from black girls with white babies, both

uncomprehending, the absurdities of life.

Polish bricklayers wiping the sweat from their faces, are all biceps and

triceps, they’re watched by giggling girls from posh schools on

coaches

Here children, arms like wings, fight wars of the imagination where no-

one ever dies, screaming and yelling, indifferent to the black cars of a

funeral, on the roof of the lead car,

in lily and chrysanthemum , a single word is written: MUM

for an instant through the crowds passes

a vast unaccountable silence

as the cortège passes the people sigh in relief

that they are not as indifferent as they may think

and despite it all society does exist.

An unpublished poet sits In the garden of the Prince Albert, scribbling

a few lines of Walt Whitman on a napkin

Never more inception than now,

never more perfection than now,

never more beauty than now,

never more glory than there is now

be I known or unknown

be I published or unpublished

I lay down on leaves of grass

and I sing the body electric..

an attentive barmaid, empties the ashtray, takes the piece of paper,

smiles, before she throws the thing away

light gathers in limped pools,

stained green by the leaves, bees swoon above the flowers drunk on

nectar and the lees

cigarette smoke drifts in sun-shafts

in soft grey plumes, and for the afternoon,

the garden is his shelter, away from all the

folly and the worlds welter, and then familiar face at the bar gestures:

"Do you want a drink?"

and it’s much to early to get pissed, much to early, and yet despite

this, he finds himself saying: "Yes, Yes I will, Yes".

 

Ballads Of Sexual Dependency

Water about you

smooth, warm, a second skin

washes away the bitter-sweet saline

of him, who lingers, moist upon your cheek

like last night’s smudged lipstick

or the delicious reek of stale perfume

your cleansed by this

the water warm about you.

Yesterday you were a different person

content in your self-sufficiency

like Cuba in the 1950’s,

your poor, your free, your happy

and this morning, you woke with him,

warm and soft beneath your sheets

and you felt wonderfully afraid

his feet half in, half out of shadow,

his breathing, quiet, soft, shallow,

he’s heavy with the scent of cigarettes,

of alcohol and sex.

You gently slipped out of bed and ran a bath

and wiping the steam from the mirror

you studied yourself, a few new lines about the eyes, some more grey

hairs have appeared

you’re 35, it seems, what ever that means

you’ve never felt more alive

all your former ways are cast a-side,

you write across the mist covered glass

‘I’m gorgeous’ the words fade quickly

from the glass, you burst out laughing

like a little girl running through the long grass.

There is nothing as sexy as a stranger

when you take a stranger for a lover

nothing so dangerous as that kiss

when everything you want is on the surface

his name, his origin, who he is, where he’s going

of no interest

he buys you a drink, that you suspect-

he can’t afford, he’s young, and thinks

seduction is played out like this

your heart sinks when he

starts to talk about the books he’s read

and films he’s seen, the clubs he’s been

so you say to him:

" When I was young, men would

ask me back, then talk to me until

dawn endlessly, and only when I said

I’m going home, would they try to

get me into bed, but by then I’d

lost all interest, now you can get

me drunk, or talk philosophy, if

that’s what you want, I myself,

would rather go home and fuck

if it’s money you want to spend

pay the taxi-fare to my house then"

There is nothing as sexy as a stranger

a stranger who’s eyes are chief among sapphires

God’s broach, a man at ease with himself

who wears the city like a coat cut to his size

last night he threw it over your chair

you’d turned the music up real loud

and danced and danced and danced

that gram of coke you’d been saving since

the last summer of love went up in smoke

and you shared a tab of ecstasy

you have never been so stoned,

so happy, swapping intensity with intensity.

You pour more hot water into the bath

the warmth sends a shiver down your spine

your body modulates like the song

of a nightingale attenuates like the colour of glistening amber in the

transparency of water

the thin gold of your skin frosts over with sea-salt and sparkling

crystal the enamel bath becomes your Jordan and as you break the

waters tense meniscus you have become in that instant

the dawn and day intact.

When you consider all the profit and the loss

when you consider the laughter and hurt feelings, when you consider

how each transient

instant is erased by time

when you consider all the greatest moments of your life are fleeting,

when you consider how all love declines, how love declines like

evening, then you would accept who you are, accept those around

you and be thankful for whatever the days brings finding nothing else

for which you can be thankful.

Days are like deep pools of water

where danger and beauty are mix

although you may fall beneath

no matter how deep you go

no matter how dark, how distant,

you are experienced enough

not fight against it, old enough to know

how to over come it, so that in the end,

you will again rise serene

your nets heavy with the harvest of the seas

you will spread your catch upon the beach

there will be reflected in the bituminous-

horizon of your irises will be him fast asleep,

as still and as perfect as a fossil, his truth

imprinted forever, on the black, of your dying pupils.

Eyes closed you slip beneath the water

and float amid the immensity of things

steam gathers in clouds across the ceiling

trapping light within the luminosity of its wing

the iridescent beauty of these things

are within you gathered slow by slow

slow by slow in you enclosed

this treasure horde of Being

that cuts your cords and cast you a-drift

with immanence like mint upon your lips.

Once again you slip beneath waters edge

as it covers your face, you feel as if,

you’ve slipped into a state of Grace

you hold your breath as long as possible

as the water turns and grows cold about you

you notice then, something turning cold that grows within, so for the

last time, breaking

the water you come up again

within your hands you hold your face

and in that stillness and that peace

you breath again and breathing weep.

Water like all things tend

toward their end, you let the water go

it unfurls, pours, flows, spills, downhill,

as water will; it leaves you mostly,

as if finds you, mostly unchanged,

he lipstick, smoke, the scent

is washed away but you remain

like all things true, it’s not what,

you can do with it, but it does to you.

You love the embrace of men

you love to be alone again

but something gives you pause

and against you better judgement

you are resolved, to hold his head,

deep against your breast,

hold him some more, hold him,

as you had held him the night before

there’s a time to alone, there’s time

not to be alone, I be alone again,

tomorrow, or when I say, but not today.

Beside last night he said

he had never heard of "Talking Heads"

so you played him "Stop Making Sense"

You may find yourself living in a shot gun shack

You may find yourself

in another part of the world

You may find yourself behind the wheel

of a large automobile

You may find yourself, in a beautiful house,

with a beautiful wife,

You may ask yourself: well how did I get here?

Against your better judgement

lay next to a stranger,

your naked and your hair is wet,

you hold his head against your breast

as you feel yourself slip gently into sleep

realising only then, you don’t even know his name.

 

A poet's reply to just criticism.

(Two poems for Eammon Shannahan)

(i)

A word scribbled out in time

A diatribe against the daisies

I burn my fingertips in wine

I could go, but I'm lazy.

Into the pyre all loathing goes

Too tired to be crazy

The star strewn Milky Way knows

My "Well yeah maybe¡".

The system's metronome grows

Beats out a lullaby of envy

In my womb the Nile flows

Where I drowned my baby.

The bloody fist is again in bloom

Its pollen has no pity

The Inn at Bethlehem has no rooms

Though acres stand Calvary.

(ii)

Red banner over Diem Biem Phu

Petals caught in history's slipstream

A fossa like the nape of the neck

A hole like a mother's longing

A kite over the fields of Afghanistan

39 the Polish border

The soldiers are coming over the hills

And they have their orders.

 

Pretty little love poem.
 
Pressed so hard against the truth of it
broke her nose against the glass
fields of daisies completed it
that was unsullied from the start
dreams of herself inspired it
a new Sun born in her dawn
blood red were the roses that surrounded it
her own flesh the thorns had torn....
 
Grief was in lexicon of her language
but she learnt to spell a different way
the text of the street was her poetry
recited in her own way
Justice was the game she played with the children
with love she had fed them all
they all grew as strong as the mountains
and the Moon obeyed their call...
 
The surface of her eyes are as bitumous
and as dark as the cloud soaked seas
I couldn't carry home all of the trinkets
and the love she gave to me
I tasted her clove scented sweet breath
one night under the shadowed stars
she took me places I've never been
I never wanted to travel that far...
 
The cream of the milky-way covers her
incubus wakes her from sleep
my touch on her face comforted her
and my kisses gave her relief
her body was like a snow covered landscape
that never felt the slightest foot-fall
pristine falls the clearest of waters
my same mouth sucks it all...
 
Back, back, time gathers her skirts in
and takes me to the Worlds ball
all night I held her hand tightly
and danced with her through the halls
delay and delay, sound the church bells
I let destiny stand by my gate
I missed my appointment because I day-dreamed
and I told tommorrow  it could wait...
 
In my arms I cradled my lover
she came to me the another day
her tears on my pillow so lightly said
"I'll never from you will stray"
never is a long time my baby
but now is not time to split hairs
I cradled my lover as she lay sleeping
and carried her sleeping up stairs...
 
Go tell the king in his arm-chair
that wha we have we hold
he may send ultimatums and armies
but what we have can never be sold
go tell the Gods in their heavens
that nothing they have can tempt me
for my love's hair pours light like star-shine
the 'O' of her mouth is infinity.
 
Psycho.
 
I feel like a girl
with a nail in her hand
as dead as end
a splinter from a door
I’m your biggest fan
gonna trepan my man
so he won’t leave me
mine forever more
my little zombie
I want to cut you
make you an open sore
blood drips gathers in pools
all you my love
in little pin-prick pools
red on the floor
the menstrual out-pour
of a punch drunk cunt
street whore Sylvia
a junky Plath
a-logical, a-moral, allogorical
pretty little psychopath
in my green dress
carved my name on your chest
but you don’t call me anymore
so drunk I came passed
robbers to your door
not laughing but screaming
you won’t play with me anymore
I’m gonna kill you
that will hurt me more
do I terrify you?
you who was my star?
all I wanted was to be the kidnapped girl
in the boot of your big car
I wanted you to eat me
like Hannibal Lector
I wanted to be inside you
but you choked on me
spit me out on the floor
I’m gonna kill you
because I love you
when you’re bleeding
you’ll know for sure
that nobody loved you
like I loved you
and nobody will anymore.
 
 
TRAMPS.

From nutrious half eaten fruit

abandoned in the afternoons

light falls in sinewy gallons.

 

The taste of the light

is a brook gushing names by their billions

the fruit translates the code

of all there is.

 

In the name of the light

I bite down with vicious teeth

on the succulence of hours

and the words they melt

beneath my finger-tips.

 

In the taste of the World

I spin foetal, wrapped in the juice of days

that are dripping constant.

 

I drown with musclar spasms

choking of the fruits flesh

that other's have abandoned

in these afternoons.  

 

Washing The Dead.

Song 1

There is a time
that does away with time
there comes a date
puts an end to dates
life goes on
but not for everyone
there are words
that being said
leave the speaker dumb
the linen and the water
have been fetched
we stand in silence
around the bed
this how we how we learn
to wash the dead.


Song 2

According to the circadian
systolic pressure falls
routinely by dawn
no Korothov sounds are heard
beyond the  Fossa
no brachial pulse can be discerned
neither chaotic or irregular
no pattern in the blood flow
not enough to measure
the radial artery is still
beneath the index finger
only an echo crosses the border
that seperates ventricle and aorta
occasionally if tachycardia grows
peaks in the heart monitor may show
what Hippocrates called long ago
“The turbulence of the soul”.


Song  3

Against policy
I was alone with you,
we didn’t speak,
I was too shy and you,
well you, you was dead,
it’s against policy
but there I was
alone with you
and student that I am
I studied you
and you are so old
hundreds and hundreds
of years in your hands
skin worn right through
lavender your lips
eyes seem now quite dim
hair white from root to tip
un-shorn and worn
long to belly and hip
like little girls do
they plaited it for you
it’s against policy
but I touched your face 

you were so cold
like cut marble
but you smelt
like a new born
I was unafraid in the stillness
the night, me and you,
in that half-light
between time
it’s against policy
to touch you
but I touched you
I drew your hair
your  white hair,
from your face,
lay it over your shoulders
like a shawl
and it’s against policy
to care about you
strangest of strangers
but whispering
in that stillness I said to you
your beautiful, beautiful.

Even unto China
As for myself I have already found my black tulip...
                                         Charles Baudelaire

In a dress of amethyst
outside on the balcony
superior to nature
heavy with perfume
an incomparable flower
hot-house daisy.

Billowing canvas
stars stretched out of slumber
hair unfurled like banner
shadow falls after
black as her pupils
bitumen horizons.

Penny for Chiron
from a balustrade of breeze
dropped into harbours
bright topaz water
caught by her wonder
float frozen beside her.

Mistress for master
The Jew buys a dukedom
with a peerless diamond
that couldn’t woo her
knowledge her treasure
she seeks unto China.

 

YUKI’S DEAD.

(Committed suicide in the first year of the Millennium
May the centuries surround her with fire)

So it has come to this
All this this
How small, how paltry, useless
The stupidest of all things
The first-strike
Pre-emptive mid-life crisis
You eschewed what I’d embraced
Capital, Markets, Risk analysis
First defrauding the DSS for 50 quid
Then you’re anxious about the rent
About the mortgage, about the kids
Find yourself talking
About house prices, house prices, house prices
Really believing in it all
The ritual, rigmarole, gotta get fit
Gotta get my teeth fixed
So I can compete, compete, compete
It’s the economy stupid
Yes Mr President It’s the economy
At 20 I studied Metaphysic, Aesthetics, Ontology
But I’m 30 and I’m skint
I want money, money, money
A pension, share certificates, interest
Add it all to my cash fetish
The come on from the commodity
From which I’m alienated
Who wants to be a Marxist?
I want to be rich
Exploit rather than be exploited
Clean shaven, suited and booted, suburban, conservative
Wife swapping, Mail reading, shit
So it has come to this
All this this
That it has to take an opened wrist
A bottle of pills
The rope around the neck
Finis, cut, roll credits, to put an end, to an illusion
It took your death
To give me a reality check
Find myself up to my knees
Wading through a sea of shit
Tragic if it were not so bloody stupid
Stupid if it were not so bloody tragic
On my voice mail there’s a message
“Yuki’s Dead”
I don’t believe it
I want to rush out into the streets
And shout
"Yuki's Dead"
But who would listen?
Who has the time to listen?
And when I arrive at her bed-sit
The only thing that’s left
Is the blood upon her sheets
And the blood upon her sheets
And the blood upon her sheets
Is so beautiful, so beautiful, so dam beautiful
That I laugh out loud
I start laughing
Then weep.

Can ever a woman her quietus make
With a bare bodkin?
With a bomb, with bullets?
Can ever a woman her quietus make
With a butchers knife?
Slice deep and clean into the skin
Can ever a woman her quietus make
A nutshell breaking, strong as a Queen
Of infinite space, escaping-
Her all encompassing bad dreams?

Yuki, it seems
You really did it
You really did it
You woke early and bought the papers
Posted all your letters
Got undress again had a shower
You smelt of shampoo and talcum powder
Placed a flower on the altar
Prayed before a fading picture
Of a youthful Dalai Lama

“I take refuge in the Buddha
 I take refuge in the Dharma
 I take refuge in the Sangha"

You finally finish the book you’re reading
"The Amber Spyglass" by Philip Pullman
Listen to your last CD
"Redemption Songs" by Bob Marley
You find yourself singing


Everything's going to be all right
Everything's going to be all right
Everything's going to be all right
 
Dancing naked in the kitchen
You find yourself singing

Don't worry about a thing
Don't worry about a thing
Don't worry about a thing

Then on a piece of paper
You start writing

There comes a time that puts an end to time
There comes a date that does away with dates
Life goes on, but not for everyone,
I remember you all with feeling
Without you I’m nothing
I remember you all with compassion
Without you I'm nothing
Without Love Life has no meaning
Without you I’m nothing
So I must be leaving
Without you I’m nothing
I fear nothing, I fear no man
There is no Hell; there is no Heaven
There is no place to where I'm going
I have wandered across
A strange celestial sphere
The centre is always everywhere
We all learn in the end
Death is our tender friend
On whom we can all depend
Without you I’m nothing.

I have called God’s bluff
These Gods may live forever
But they will never feel the weather
Smell the heather after rain
They will never kiss a lover
Use the bike shed for their shelter
After school for half an hour
Rest their head upon the shoulder
Of their first apprentice lover
With them spend a summer
Although you lost contact later
Such moments linger
Like perfume in an empty room
Left by a dying flower
The maid has just removed
The Gods control the sky
But do they terrify?
Is what is holy holy because the Gods approve it?
Or do they approve because it is holy?
Was I weak
To have wept because another weeps
The Gods don’t complain
Or feel pain, nor do they suffer
The Gods look both ways
So they never get run over,
Or watch their children die of cancer
They don’t feel lonely nor feel hunger
They will, never have to bury, in the mud
Their friends and family
You mighty Gods
I pity you your immortality
I hate your antiseptic firmament
Despise your pure and vaulted tent
Where nothing is borrowed because nothing is lent
Where no favours are asked so no promises are kept
No yes, or no,
No yea nor nay,
No welcome home, because no running away
Nothing changes so there’s nothing new to say
Nothing left for them to discovery
So they have no sense of wonder
No passion in them can be spent                                    
Their love is always omni-potent
Thus immortality’s theorem runs
The sum of the love of everyone
Is much less then only loving some
Much less then only loving one
From now until the kingdom come
I kiss my love upon his head
From now until the kingdom come
I kiss my love upon his cheeks
From now until the kingdom come
On his eyes and on his lips
From now until the kingdom come
I hold my love around his waist
From now until the kingdom come
And lay my head upon his chest
From now until the kingdom come
My kisses, urgent, hot, intense
From now until the kingdom come
I have my love between my thighs
From now until the kingdom
Because tomorrow I may die
Because tomorrow I may die
Because tomorrow I may die

I take refuge in the Buddha
I take refuge in the Dharma
I take refuge in the Sangha.

This is not an obituary
This is not a list of achievements
From A to Z
A eulogy to the land-marks, moments
Highlights she squeezed between life and death
This is not a collection of the things she said
A mention in Debretts
This is not a poem written for the editor’s desk
It shall not be regretted
This is not a poem written to impress
I could care less
This poem is about a suicide
But it’s not about death
This is a poem about Yuki
This is not a poem about Yuki
This poem is about us
This is a poem about me.

Can we know anyone?
Anything about anyone?
People are complex
Hold as many possibilities as galaxies hold Suns
In London, the people that you meet
You may hate, love, fuck, and kiss
You may lend or borrow a buck
Runaway from or miss
You may buy or cage a drink
In London people
Pass through the city like ships
The flags we fly are merely of convenience
The city is a wasteland
The city can be opposite of a waste land
The city is where we live
The city is how we live
The city needs no predicate
The city is

We are the city
That’s how we like it
We like the spaces
We like the spaces that separate us
Though we exist cheek to cheek
In our urban villages
Between us stretches unimaginable distances
Vast intimacies and intensities
Fantasies and memories
Moments and immensities
In the city you say
Who are you?
I don’t know you
I don’t know from where you’ve came
I don’t know your game
I don’t even know your second name
I don’t know your shame
I don’t what to know that anyway
I just want us to be friends
Can we be friends?
Let us be friends
Let there be trade between us
Let there be commerce between us
Let there be love between us
That’s how we like it
That’s how we thrive
That’s how a city of five million souls
Can live side by side
This is our Metropolis, our 21st century
Our history
Our mortality
We came here to be free
And we are free
And we are free
We try to be
We try to be free but...

The constant crush of the spectators
The audience, autograph chasers, fakers, takers
Always on the makers, the accumulators, slave traders
Wife beaters, meat eaters, stone cold killers, rapists
Thieves, paedophile priests, the general staff and their sums
Who to the slaughter sent our sons in 1914
The bovine nature of the cannon fodder
The keepers of the moral order,
Those that say nothing
Those that follow the greatest number
The doctor who specialised in torture
The puritanical, fanatical, breeders
Team leaders, managers, gas chamber designers
The wardens, always only taking orders
And their wives shopping out of boredom

Spending the money hubby made on promotion
It’s a dirty job they gave him
But the majority opinion is-
If you gassed one yid you’ve gassed a million
(But Yuki said: We are  all Jews, we are all German.)
He washes the blood off his hands
And changes the clothes he’s got on
He scares his own children
His clothe smell of Zyklon B
Why do you look at me?
Why do you look at me like that?
I have I said something wrong?
Is it something that I‘ve done?
Is it something that I’ve done?
Oh God have pity on us!

All our stock is falling so you’d better sell
Sell city central; sell your rights,
What makes you equal
Sell the Law, sell your principles
Sell your vote, sell the election,
Sell yourselves and sell your children
Sell your friends out for position
Sell your freedom for a salary
Sell your sweet-heart and a rich-man marry
Sell your reason and your sanity
Sell your beliefs and your Humanity
Sell your sense of absurdity
And when there's nothing that you own
Sell your heart, sell your soul
One-day left, everything must go.

Yuki loved shopping
And Human Beings are a bargain
It's amazing what you can get
For next to nothing
Soiled goods and stuff rejected
Strange fruit and mental cases
Piss artists, prophets, pick pockets, dollar dancers
Fraudsters, hoarders, addicts
Prostitutes, squatters, creepers,
Priests who have lost all faith in Jesus
Poets unknown to the cannon
The poor of Brixton South London
Yuki packed her bags with
The mad, bad, the dangerous
The people Alan Ginsberg made famous
The marginal, the crippled, the dispossessed
The ill-dressed sirens of the streets
The homeless, the thief, dealers of opium
The hopelessly out-of-fashion
The best and brightest minds of their generation
The hated races, the nameless, the drunks-
Propping up the bars,
The losers, the cruisers, the reckless
Those without the wit to hide their weakness
And can’t go, those that thought they were strong
But they were wrong
She collected, the wounded and the naked,
She made us feel as tall as sky scrapers
Gave us back our faces.

So it has come to this
All this this
Yuki you’ve opened your wrist
You’ve wet yourself, you smell of piss
You’re covered  in vomit and shit
The blood has dried to your hair
Oh your hair your hair
Your beautiful black hair
O your black hair is matted
Your skin is ash grey, a bloated cadaver
The blood is drained from your lips
Left them all lavender
Your rigid like a lamb after slaughter
All your muscles buckled and stiff
They had to smash your hand with a hammer
So hard was the knife in your fist
So hard was the knife in your grip
That to release it
The falling hammer had to shattered your fingers
And all our heart and soul
Shattered with it.

Yuki studied the science of separations
Made careful preparations
Nothing here is left to chance
Even the lipstick on the glass
Is pregnant with meaning
Your coat thrown over a chair
The things you always wear
Black eyeliner, leather chocker
Your Soho, retro, fetish gear
Boots up to the knee
On the floor your Tee-shirt still bloody
"I am a slut so fuck me"
Your obsession with PVC
Whips, ropes, KY jelly
A black vibrator on the shelf
On top of a copy of Madam Bovery
On the wall a poster of Malcolm X
“By any means necessary”
And quote from Yoko Ono above it all
"Women are the Niggers of the World"
Hanging from the door
The silk Kimono that your mother wore
Under the settee
Boxes heavy with your poetry
On your desk your final hand written poem
"I don’t want to be the last of the Bohemians"
Your Futon and an open photo album
Next to a pipe that smelt of opium
A lighter, pack of rizla, a knife
The collected wealth of a single life
Could on a single page be listed
Yet in spite of this
When you left this world barefoot and naked
You still stood a full head above-
All the worlds riches.

So it has come to this
All this this
Dust to dust, ashes to ashes
Without sorrow, without priests
We scatter her dust over the streets
Cover our faces with her ashes
We are beggars, poets, and singers
Together we sit and eat
No one is outcast from her feast
As if upon a road two strangers meet
One has water and the other wheat
So they sit and they make bread
Wild flowers for their seats
Wonder the subject of their speech
No one leaves empty handed
No one is outcast from her feast
We drank a cup to her name
Not sad because she’d left
But happy because she came
She was our princess,
She showed us what was good
And what was useless
So we take the useless
And with it built a pyre
And we pour wine upon the useless
And watched the flames grow higher

We cried, we wept,
Not for Yuki
But for ourselves
Not for the city, but the entire world,
And through our tears we said:
"O let these centuries surround her fire".
















Eammon's Eyes

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