So many hands that ever turned this faucet….
So many hands that ever turned this faucet
Have gone to rest, they’re sleeping underground;
Or had their ashes spread upon the desert,
With only wind for company, or sound —
We all get our few turns here at the faucet,
But don’t be fooled by rust, neglect or age;
How many turns we get, there is no knowing,
Just our few lines, and then
We leave the stage
Grandmother and grandson.
“Please don’t leave, grandma –”
“Oh, child. I’ll only
leave when I have to”
Dear Crito, now, suggests that I should go….
Dear Crito, now, suggests that I should go.
I cannot do this, for it would be wrong;
And though I know the ship arrives ere long,
I’ll stay and live the only life I know.
The life I’ve lived since I was in my youth;
To hold my head up high, and daily walk,
To never from my duty run or balk,
And live that I might only seek the truth
As an usher at a funeral…
I stand by this door and hold
Scraps of paper in my hand
Telling of the life and times
Of a single much-loved man
I hand one to each who enters
They sit down on wooden seats
Thinking of the sleeping knight whose
True kind heart no longer beats
Gone from us without a warning
Gone to travel, far too soon
We, too deaf to hear it coming
Strains of death’s familiar tune
… that you’ve built yourself today.
Say, that’s quite a castle
That you’ve built yourself today;
But night is coming with it’s storm
To wash it all away
The sun’s first rays will fall upon
A beach white and pristine;
As all the work of human hands
We fight we lose but still we fight
We have to try to live (to try)
The victor is the one who can
Take losing without alibi
For what is winning in the end?
Defeat’s the fate that we’ve been cast;
The brief illusion we have power
Is always shattered
We stand up next to the edge, because
We long for death, in some way