A View To The Funeral Plains 26. 06. 03

          - to my despondent self -

The ominous shades are surrounding your dwelling
They move in a horrible bloodcurdling rite
The night stares at you and the distant bell's knelling
To call your soul up for the last fatal flight

Your brief summer fleets in a vain expectation
And nothing shall ease your emotional pains
From season to season your dismal creation
Appeals to the sky from the funeral plains

Your light faded there - frankness, love and repentance
Were buried in silence deep under the stone
The keeper of fate's carried out his harsh sentence
And left you to wait for the gloomiest dawn

One great minstrel said: "I'm at sixes and sevens"
And probably, you must feel something like that
The bones of your forerunners rest in the carvens
Just some voices fly o'er the long foggy flat

And now no one heeds the sad words of a songster
In their sinful falling nobody regrets
For these stolid fools you're a madman, a monster
Who talks with the demons and spells the wild bats

But don't care a hang; they are simply the cattle
That grazes on its stinking nauseous field
And your sombre verse rules the wings made of metal
Despite all your wishes and dreams unfulfilled

This sacrosanct land is your permanent harbour,
The dark shore of time midst the decades of woe
So, share with the phantoms their slow dance macabre
And witness the grace of the withering glow

The words of your lyrical art rhyme not often
But its penetration you cannot eschew
Your way is obscure but from cradle to coffin
Your desperate muse roams together with you