Great Poetry Circle

Great Poetry Circle

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Selection of Great Poetry and some from Tommy Stroller - choose your category - and see my other sites -

Croatian Poems

TS LovePosted by Graham Thompson Fri, October 12, 2018 12:45:26

Rijeka Evening


The sun falls on this balcony scene

Of blue Slovenian hills with gilded filigree

Villages uncurling on small ridges

One above the other in single file

& the Adriatic azure stillness

Washes its gentle waves

Over my last loved body

In endless Slavic embraces

Then kisses fall like petals on my skin

Or bruise my silenced aching mouth

Teeth clashing tongues wrestling

So long that even breath

And dead memory are utterly gone


Passion mystifies the maze of living

Under clear blue skies and Slavic eyes

A voice comes to me as if

From some deep well

In the fundaments of my being

Yours is the voice

Mine the song

This the final runway

For our entwining spirits

& this the meaning

from which our future lives

Is sprung


I have allowed you

To peer through the keyhole

Of my whole life

Without once fearing that keys

Rather than eyes

Will lock me in


Our future travels beyond

All those terrifying

& sometimes beautiful past hauntings

All those dark infidelities

& back-stabbed hearts

Outrageous badly acted parts

We played for some fiction of the Other

This future leans on the

Other side of that past

A future as clean as the sheets

We love on

Before Departure

O my love now

"I can only write" (1)

Not of leaving

Nor nostalgia

Not even in the belief of the saving Graces

No only of this blinding love

That entwines us with the certainty

Of well-learnt dance-steps

Yes long learnt but freshly chosen

As if God’s angels were beating

Their wings in our hearts

In feet & toes now unfrozen

(1) Cf Neruda's lines in his 20 Poems of Love

After Departure

All that has gone from me

You safely tucked away in your heart

All that you have given me

Is now a stage where the play of our lives can begin

It’s a production

Full of comedy

Not of giant-killing or tragedy

It’s a love story

Of the common niceties we enjoyed

A kitchen-sink drama

With two chefs at the stove

Cooking love’s meals

Nourishing and tasty:

May it last

To the very last spoonful


Croatian nights

The mystery of time

And this place where spirits

From many tribes assemble

Whilst stars hold their place in the heavens

Like constant friends

And fishing boats blink inconstantly

To move every night to new grounds

There are so many peoples

Who have met at the Gulf of Kvarner

So many landings from Pecine to Trieste

Angels have flown from terrifying heights

In the poetry and writings of Europe's best

The sperm of young generations

Lost in the battles

The fleets and machinations

Of emperors, dictators and fake dramatists

But still the calm Adriatic, warm and entrancing

Swings in the minds of Rijeka's Children

Squatted on the shingle, listening

To their music, mobiles illuminating

Green blue and yellow their

Faces absorbed in the smallest

Of international shows

Skin bronzed and shoulders constantly turning

Towards one another, new

Spirits released from the curse of history

From power-mad conquerors

Politics reoriented by love

On this beach of a dream at Pecine

Pecine's Pajola Rock Cafe 12.9.18


Unlocked the tidings of the heart resigned

To teach these lepers of the mind new lines:

Schiele’s paper epigrams and Klimt’s

Tatooed dresses will be freed

To wander lightly beyond canvas bounds

And enter in mosaic walls and floors

Till stars drawn down at dawn

Carry us to the end of time

World on Fire

TS Political PoetryPosted by Graham Thompson Fri, October 12, 2018 12:31:59

Hospital Britannia

There is something desperately wrong

In olde England - how we still pretend

To be a world power, a first

Class nation with a long history

Of political lordism

Over so many lesser nations

Who have never recognised

The sources of our authority

Even if they respect our over-celebrated

History and look up to our

Bitter-sweet cultural icons - those

Bastards of a twisted and class-ridden past,

Even if they sometimes remember

Britannia the liberator, the Byronesque

Hero who himself despised its demesne

The rain spits in our faces

On our Anglo-Saxon south coast

All the way from ancient enemies

France, Spain, Germany

And Holland - all of whom

We never quite conquered

Even when we still pretend

We did - liberated yes,

But what kind of liberation did we give ourselves:

An old-age mixed with Britain’s filthy damp airs

Breeds lung disease and twisted babies,

Whilst the rich still fatten

On our stone-cold carcass

Bones poking out of drains and

Unrecycled garbage.

Something is desperately lost

Even with stick and age,

Demented thoughts scrabble like crabs

In unfermented brains.

We feel no longer wisdom

As once our forefathers were honoured

To do - no we suffer politely

Still pulling a forelock at our betters

And copying their stately homes

In miniaturised imitation,

Which constantly need up-scaling

Until we really believe every Englishman’s home

Is really the castle of our dreams,

Defended not only against foreign scum

But those from any slightly lower class.

It’s a squeezed tight-arsed world

Where rules are more important than people,

When procedures dictate

If and when people can eat

Even though they are hungry,

When immigrants are locked up

And nobody owns up to throwing away the key,

When beggars are persecuted and givers

Are sent to gaol for sharing a crust of their wealth,

When algo-rhythms steal our souls

And replace them with every advert

We could maybe wish to see

Even though we are never buying it,

It’s just to distract us from the more important matters

Such as life and death,

Human contact and human trust.

One day every human virtue will be stolen from us

By sleight of a hidden computerised hand,

Or a bureaucrat just doing an honest days work,

Or an untrained assistant in hospital Brittania,

Whilst the highly trained qualified professionals

Hide behind their screens,

Equally puzzled by their tick-box over-managed world

Humanity, respect, individual trust

Is sunk in a whirlpool of lies

And eaten by the sharks and money grubbers

Of this technologized overly-controlled world

Lies disguised as saving de-vices

And dressed up as official & politically correct rules

These lies will one day eat up their manufacturers

When the chickens come home to roost

The chicken house will be in flames.

One Sunday Morning in Cologne

I came across a naked woman

Walking in the rain

A lonely Indian in the mall

Trawling the smokers’ trash cans

A man asleep before a bench

Clasping a silver chain

An elevator offering one lost shoe

Stockingless, hi-heeled and tan

Two giant plastic bags

Filled with the next night’s bedding

A wild-haired woman sobbing

A doll inside her pram

Flashing neon haloing late homecomers

Hung over from Saturday’s feasts

It was by chance I walked this way

Not fate that aligned these tropes

The choice lies in all our wills

Not spells cast on screens

Yet still the adverts circle on

Trundling the tragedies of missed desire


Every day the man from the clothes shop

Brings the same headless black dummies

Out into the street and thus displays

His wares to a careless world

Hver dag henter manden fra tøjbutikken

Samme hovedløse sorte mannequiner

Og sætter dem på gaden - på denne måde viser han

Sine varer til en ubarmhjertig verden

Thanks to Camilla Pless og Birgith Lotzfeldt for the Danish help
og de Chirico for part inspiration


Denmark! Oh Denmark

“There is something rotten …”

Holger Danske needs reawakening

Now the Danes are broken in two

One half supping at

Their social-democratic beers

In the long lines of ever longer bars

Expressing their needs

For the return of a lost universe

Of social allowances

Pensions and easy diagnoses

The other exploiting the holes

In a crumbling social system

Making profit from the other half’s tears

Lining their trouser pockets

(Which themselvers have been bought

With the funds from the party

An all night party that never stops

At the parting of every opportunistic dawn)

With the ill-gotten gains from

Technogiants, warehandlers and merchant

Fleets - those great and generous

Contributors to Danish culture

But more importantly

To the party’s continuance

The party that will never see the dawn

Of Holger’s awakening

The Graveyard for the Prisoners of War

When 70 people die -

In a war

In a prison camp

A thousand miles from home

Belgians, French, Russians

And one Lithuanian

No longer as soldiers

But merely as the victims

Of typhus

In the overcrowded camp

Not a concentration camp

For it was before these were

Properly invented

So that even the German doctor

Dr. Fallscheer

He died treating them

But, of course, is buried elsewhere

And they were buried properly

With names written

On each simple headstone

And regiment and country

In their own little cemetry

Next to the long-gone prison camp

Far out in the fens

Of old Slesvig

- why do I find tears in my eyes

As I look down the rows of engraved names:

Bubowski, Dams, Faucault, and Stepkin?

Why do they plead me their cause

As they stare out over the flatlands

Of what is now Denmark

But what was once Germany?

No member of my Thompson clan

Was captured by Germans.

No grandfather of mine ever fought

In the Great War.

Is it that they died

Far from homes, wives and friends?

Or is it that they represent

A common Europe which

They augmented by their deaths,

Buried by Germans

Tended by Danes

And at least one Englishman?




In my head

With Calvin and cigar

Charles the three-eyed XII

Of Sweden

And Christ the humble hero.

Silence etched by rain,

The streets I walk on

Paved with three faces,

Cracking secretly their hidden thoughts,

I tread fiercely,

Hunchbacked we fight it out

Sadistics scrapping on into the night,

Till something breaks,

Or is it cut?

1. Calvin

It fell to me a sign

In quiet Génève

Where every line of desire

Was knotted into fear:

I am the ethos by which the judgment is made.

Show me the talents you have won for our Lord,

Yes, show me your tokens of faith.

Remember the prodigal son .......

The eyes of needles grow.

The cigar gves him away

In the row of small shops;

It is six o'clock precisely

And time to lock up.

It brings a small profit,

The sum his wife knows

Buys hats large and small

And sometimes tight shoes

O for they shall inherit the earth

Two by two on a predestined raft.

The security beneath my fingernails is destroyed.

The manor is left deserted,

My mind a cog, my heart a wheel,

I own nothing I can call my own.

Except a bottle.

It is mine.

I have bought a bottle.

With my own money,

Which I have earnt.

And I have worked to earn the money with which

I have bought a bottle.

I am speaking from a brothel

Conducting my own research

Into the vices of the mob - you know the kind.

I am all that is nice

But I am not beauty

For beauty is vulgar

If not a little indecent.

Tell me my whores

Do you think I am nice?

Do you not think my fingers are nice?

Bought a bottle full

Caught her throttle full

My fingers

Brothel brown

Better than a bottle full

Frothel frown

All over you

Coddle crown


2. Charles XII of Sweden

Glory be to glory be

Land of sleeping elephants

Land of the free

It does not matter who we invade

As long as the kids are put in the way

Scots Welsh or Vikings

They'll all do the dirty spade-

work - though I was a King at the front

An old fashioned King

Who got my hands bloody

With all the best

At least the best of the rest

I carved my name with Swedish steel

From Narvik to Constantinople

Cockpitted and heroed for the folks back home we were

Joyriders in the clouds

Following the apocalyptic four

And full score seven millions

Got blasted on the ground

We´ll give them medals

Their babes free milk

We'll light their candles

And chop off their heads

If they desert my sinking ship, boys

If they support me back to front

And I am God's witness

If God exists

I watched the blood of the lambs

Washed whiter than the Narva snows

And heard the death-man play in Paris

The subtle drum-like tones:

The king now lies in state,

His bullet eye of death

Winks his glory to the world.

And nobody laid a finger on the préfecture,

Not a howl was raised from the mob

Searching for a new King’s head

In the bowels of the silent Pont Neuf.

Now the rain still falls,

The flame still flickers

For the swine who played football:

The referee is French,

And the pitch between the lines

Is human pitch.

3. Jay C. chats with Nietzsche

I spoke as a child to my

Childhood hero.

I speak with the knowledge of my universal murder

Without hope of salvation,

And cannot bear the rhythm of the eternal plan.

I speak with a child’s understanding

But as a man I am judged.

I have the taste of my body.

My body nourishes my mind:

O the ecstasy – devour the lamb,

Absolve it in the selfless soul,

For this is my ritual murder

I am the guiltless idiot:

Humbly I bow before thy feet;

Humility slips from my mouth

Like a sudden saliva bath.

Wine, wine & song,

O play the madman’s drum.

Daddy the devils are behind you with their needle eyes;

And Daddy the sky is moving,

Is shifting in the thunder.

Speak to me Daddy......

I lie unattended.

The tree rests in drunken angles:

It has soaked all the sweat from the land.

My teeth crumbles the soil in perpetuity:

Ickory dickory dock

The blood ran out the clock

The generations lie in the scrum,

Waiting for the water to turn into wine

At the marriage of life and death.

Wine, wine & song,

O play the death-man’s drum.

4. A Very Old Present

I walk into the night,

The precarious pearls of orange rain

Reflect their crown to the eyeless multitudes.

The walls of ordered memory -

The atrophied organ of time -

Are broken through,

Leaving the spatial fool

Gobbling the pity

Of unalterable reality,

Of arbitrary existence.

Insanity reorders it’s words exhumed

Into mosaic resurrection.

Morning creaks my guilt

Intends to catch me

Hallucinating halos

By the cemetery of previous desires.

Who hopes? I tell you:

Green garb and Roman silk

O leafy halos on whose head sweat it be

I tell you:

Eyes for circulation

Corner of Leicester Sq.

The thoughts hide behind the hoardings.

Have a ton

Go on.

It was that (yes that) precise kind of day

(The paintings against the Notre Dame are sinking in the Seine)


(The ash in the grate hugs the nine-tenths of my unused brain)

Up and at

The colonel backfired

The window no ladder no...................

Pearls in back pockets

History sits on us to produce the consumable product.

The word is dust and dry


The lines around the pitch are only lines

Painted an honest white

By men innocent of grounds.


Pandering to the footlights I might find a body

Hanging from the spotlight.

Up and at and into

The home straight is not straight

Peculiar glasses

For drinking eyes?

But do not touch

Symmetrical placards hung from the interpretation of human life.

Touch me I am hot


A plane in the sky perhaps


In my head.

Pass over me

Where bolder names lie more nobly,..

Draped (now)

Mouths sucking teat sea

Or old tea leaves

In Rizla reds.

My head


But is held on either side by boulders

I would not like to say of titanic dimensions!

Ah, that famous old double negative

A Cretan repeating his lies

To Bertrand Russell et al.

It's not the class of all classes

But it's my kind of underclass ...

For mine is the wine

The power and the glory

But it is too much for one head

Such clear clear white wine,

Forget and be -

Etches days oozo go away,

Comebackonanother -

In my misunderstanding.

[Begun in 1967 in Luton, UK, finished in Svendborg, DK 2018]

Notes for the reader:

“It is more difficult for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven than for a camel to pass though the eye of a needle.” Matthew 19 vs. 24

Charles XII 1682 – 1718.
In a life just a little longer than Alexander the Great's, he managed to travel and conquer most of Norway, Denmark, Estonia, Saxony, Poland and Russia, only for those lands to immediately fall back into native hands as soon as he had passed through them. He spent time in luxury with his ally the Ottoman emperor in Istanbul before returning and being shot through the head before a castle on the Norway-Sweden border whilst trying to reconquer Norway. His body, with the shot producing the affect of a third eye in his right temple, was lied in state in Copenhagen and drawn by some unknown artist for history's "consumable product". His most famous battle was at Narva in Estonia where his army of 10,000 men defeated one four times as large from Russia`s Peter the Great. Thus he was a better general than Napoleon but without the big idea.

During the second year of the 1st World War on Christmas Day there was a one day truce. The soldiers from both sides strolled into “no-man's land”, started chatting and exchanging cigarettes. Soon the working class ordinary soldiers from both sides had laid down their army jackets as goals, and started the first of what was to become the greatest rivalry in football history – England vs. Germany. The next day the ringleaders on the German side were court-martialled and sent to a concentration camp In Schleswig, near Løgum Kloster (see above). The Brits were of course more civilized: they shot the whole team as deserters. The result of this famous first match remains unknown, though the Germans claim a 7-2 victory. We finally got revenge in 1966, and the English team got medals from the Queen. But who had the last laugh???

An old English nursery rhyme whose last line actually goes: “The mouse ran up the clock”.

This is based on the old children´s rhyme that used to be sung by mothers:

“Rain, rain, go away, come back on mother's washing day.”

I have used and adapted in different sections the 16th century prayer from the Sarum Primer: “God be in my head, and in my understanding.”

Autumn in Denmark

Lithesome females smile and turn

Oncemore to face the sun.

Autumn suddenly feels like spring

But winter is in Denmark’s seas.

Seagulls wheel the town’s spires,

Pale moons reflected in eyes

Unready for the turning

Seasons. It’s later than

The clocktower bell’s

Sad signal.

Svendborg, DK 12.10.18

From One Inside The Box

Psychiatrists are actually

Ventriloquists, speaking for

You rather than to you

Oh yes they listen

But when you open your mouth

What comes out is:

“I am mad,

I am my diagnosis

I cannot recover

From a lifetime of insanity,

I am damned to die

Manic, depressed, anxious

And obsessed”

With psychiatrists who do not tell you

But only speak for you:

“I am mad, mad, mad …”

Syd Fyn

TS LovePosted by Graham Thompson Wed, August 22, 2018 11:10:36

South Fyn

til Anna

These fluid lines of curving grace

And pubic copses drawing more than eyes

To a feast of tapering thighs

Bend this mind through

Trembling late spring space

To the jailing memory

Of what we once meant

In touch as well as rhyme

I love the earth your body spent

The burst of passion floored in June

To me two sacred things you'll always be

Fyn's 'scape

The smell of mayflower's scattered must

Assembling in the dust

Remember Me

Remember me when you are old

For age will be the lesson

Of your completion

In things you do not savour now

But will only pause to miss when so long gone

Including this.

Remember us when you grow old

For we were young in loving then

And perfect in asymmetry

I - old in years

You - rolling in the profits of untramelled youth:

Dancing in limbs and fingers

Singing like a winsome flute or sadder violin.

Remember yourself when you fall old

And care for those things that time

Had no time to spare when you were young

And nurture memories of how it was

When wrinkles and dust never seeped

Into these corners of our lives

And trust was greater

Than any chasm yawning between generations.

Yes - it skewed us

Into opposing halves:

The divided paths that ended here

Beyond the canyon's edge

The Great Teacher

TS ReligionPosted by Graham Thompson Sat, August 11, 2018 11:05:25
Teacher, you are so arrogant,
So omnisciently powerful,
So blind, so prejudiced,
You teach the opposite of what you preach
To all us young initiates
You teach us to undo
All that we were taught
By lesser teachers
And even what you once preached
Until the final lesson in darkness
Reveals all

The Blind Flute Player

TS ReligionPosted by Graham Thompson Sat, August 11, 2018 11:01:20

The blind flute player whistles in the dark

And the dark sings back more beautifully

Covered in shadows, the narrow entrance

Of the maze responds to the travellers words,

And open mouthed admits

All the poets and the clowns

Of that stealthy world but forbids

Anyone who claims he knows the way.

Yes! True performers do not second-guess

The future but follow only their wicked

Inspiration and the thread

Of Dædulus – they are lead,

But never lead, to find

The minotaur of their fate,

In glad surrender

More Birthday Poems

Tommys 70th Birthday PoemsPosted by Graham Thompson Mon, August 06, 2018 13:46:26

Usambara Time

The cocks crow at 3pm,

they don't crow for anything.

A guest has come

but the host has gone out with his cows.

The guest sits outside waiting

never knowing if the host will come,

and observing the women doubled-up

like caterpillars, hoeing in their fields.

The ragged scissors of banana fronds

rustle and stir in the mountain wind.

Far below the plains seem close,

& above the clouds -

like a quarter-opened book whose binding

is uncertain, but whose pages can mirror

the scattered glyphs of clouds,

dark duplicates that run across

the alien mountain bush.

A child's cry is carried on the wind, the bati* groans

upon the fractured mud of walls,

and everywhere the same dank stink of piss,

human and animal, drenching both homes and earth.

And the blood red soil nurtures less and less

of these people and their religion:

untended ancestral shrines open to the rain, a home

only for rats, not spiritual sacrifice.

No birds sing here now, not even any woman's song.

It's half past three and I'm still waiting

For the host to come.

Note: Usambara Mountains are in north-east Tanzania.

*bati is the corrugated metal roofs on adobe houses.


Twisting angular bony hands

And fingers creating form out of nothing

As if even in moments of self-forgetfulness

Art had still to be fulfilled.

He destroys the human form with the vicious strokes of a pencil

Only to recreate it again in his own spritual image.

Comfort, love, affection - all our killed

By a lust, a meaningless sexuality

Which makes even the hesitant touch

Between one individual and another

An act of sabotage.

And all there is left is a perverse adulation

And constant masturbation both of art

And his own body.

And yet an innocence steals in

To this embrace:

A dream of attachment to one other

Captured forever in a fixture

Beyond corrosion of feelings and sad time:

Even if the woman is elsewhere in her dreams

The man is complete in his taking.


The Voice

I have broken the seal on the manuscript. I am writing across the floor.

The river unwinds its grief in huge meanders. The sky waits to appoint us.

Leaving is a three cornered hat: you me him. A crucifix around my neck. Never stop leaving me.

My bed is surprisingly empty, but my imagination is more than full now you’ve gone. I have spent the night sober, alone, and in my room. I was too happy to get drunk, too full of you to see another, and too, too mad to be allowed out alone. But I’m so glad the only thing I lost was my mind!

And to think that men do all these strange and fierce things all for the sake of that small hole in the wall of femininity.

My need for you can never be quenched by your presence. It’s a need that waters the deserts of your absence. Parts of me were healed by you, other parts torn open revealing many unsolved mysteries and the ulcers of my unfulfilled dreams. You were like an anarchist maid: dusting and cleaning everything, but refusing to replace the furniture in its accustomed place. My bed is now on the floor and no longer in the air. My new clothes have all been sent to the jumble. And my heart has a new pair of socks.

Memories are only as painful as the original was beautiful.

There are some moments in the brief and slim novels of our lives which make us feel more than fictional characters, and only just less than gods.

You are not on the credits, but I swear I hear your voice on the record. How come? Is this some strange kind of doppler effect or are you really singing behind me as I write?

We are all the double agents of the heart. We are never sure at any one time whom we are betraying, and who we are being betrayed by.

I long to be eternally jealous and yet never possess you.

She has gone.

She has stopped leaving me.

Why is it love always transforms me into a poor imitation of the loved one? She is still in my voice, still in my movements. Surely the whole world can see my falsity. Irony walks the corridors of these worn out days. Everyday I wake and pretend again you are reassembling me from the broken pieces.

Is it a smile or a grimace on the lips that wait for my kiss?

Is it laughter or tears that wait behind those envied lids.

A photograph of your voice.

The broker of broken dreams.

I am writing to the ghost of my fiction.

The Hanged Man

Graubolle Man – dug

from the side of the turf covered earth

your twisted arrow body points back

to the depths where you were discovered

in a thousand year old sleep

What is it now that you

are digging up in us?

This need for public history

eats away at your leather thin sides

your body is sucked dry

by the latter day stares

from a future you never agreed to share

To be hung upside down

was once an honour for you

and a sacrifice to your people

To be hung a second time

in the museum of our present fancies

is a slow death for us all

unless the lightning stroke ascends

in our bare modern souls

There is a Song

There is a song below growing old

A master lyric that has not been told

The dread of dying cannot stifle its voice

The love of living its altar place

When this poor body is near massacred

And aches and fevers are all that fascinates

Call to the love that makes it all worthwhile

Summon it close to light the very last smile

And if the good ashes scatter on an offshore wind

Play the tunes then that we always planned

But never quite succeeded to usher in

Play our songs and let the Host this truth confirm:

Though godless men this ball of dirt do own

Finer spirits will cleanse it finally from

The waste of time, the greater waste of love

And silence the tongues that twist my every last line

The Ballad of Jay & Magdalena

The Ballad of Jay & MagdalenaPosted by Graham Thompson Tue, July 31, 2018 12:31:11
I was unable to post the long ballad (150 pages) on this site for technical reasons. One can find it on:

All That We Took In

Tommys 70th Birthday PoemsPosted by Graham Thompson Thu, July 26, 2018 02:04:03

All that we took in

We now give back

And place it not lightly on the world

A child, a name, a star,

This, our first real metaphor

And metamorphosis

From love to flesh

Sad Songs

That same winter the walls
Glistened, the slow globes
Were mapped by lamp and stove
The dampwood sang sad songs
And your hair did not laugh anymore.

And folded in amongst yourselves
In spheres of pure preflection
Her cells grew to that song In the key of change and sacrifice.

Lines hover between the seasons
The ring of summers in axed-felled wood
Are thinner than the ripening fruit
The child dreams more dreams than lives
The poet pens
The lifelines meet
Then separate
The fire circumscribes.

In the Voices of Children Waking

They are waking now

Children of my thoughts

The taste of bitter dreams drunk

In all their wild youthful sleep.

Water splashing on a face

Furniture removed from its rightful place

Now reappears.

In the voices of children waking

There is a song below growing old:

The world is a toy for these thoughts of yet and never.

An Irish Chant for Naomi

The rain and sleet rattle at our window,

The same rattle in the child's throat,

The so human shaking at death's door,

Young light of a life hardly spent.

Why tonight is your face grown old?

Why the skin so hot and the room so cold?

The very earth seems to move, or is it just this cabin floor

Creaking in the last north wind of winter?

And if all there is to death is a past

What future can mend the bones of today,

What hope can seal the fevers of tomorrow?

Children of darkness, child in this hour,

Feed on this candlelight, recover this power:

Bring us your deliverance through your suffering gaze,

Find the strength that is stolen from this page.

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