On the long trek north,
on the long road of love,
we took some shelter
in that old house
that once stood beneath
the trees, in the shadow
of the flat mountain.
Words from the Jagged Edge of Truth
On the long trek north,
on the long road of love,
we took some shelter
in that old house
that once stood beneath
the trees, in the shadow
of the flat mountain.
Beneath these trees
Stood the old house
Before it fell.
Before it fell
We slept in the old house
Beneath these trees.
Heard the rip of tyres
Joined the highway choir
Down the road somewhere
No promised destination
Just side roads and fascinations
This road knows no fear
And the lost child now will never lead them.
The place is empty where they would have stood
and Nuremberg in silence won’t condemn;
the waft of gas hangs in the neighbourhood.
Unloved, unwanted, without a name
will we yet mourn the child who never came?
…as rays of sun slowly stroke the still earth.
So many thousands now lie dead
not one of them thought of any worth;
their death like blood upon our head.
Love and compassion, these quiet, small voices,
are lost in the damning lust for killing
and in that moment that comes with such choices
sometimes I hear the child singing…
pen to paper
word to mouth
speak your heart
or be deafened
by your own silence
I’m walking on the shore,
picking my way over rock,
dodging the wash of waves,
when my eyes are drawn to a small yacht
bobbing on its mooring,
anxious, it seems, to run
before the retreating tide.