Farewell to Benbecula!
Pennyland of the fords,
Dark island of my birth,
Dearly I hold
The days of old;
To you I'll never return.

The voice of our ancestors,
In their song of peace I hear—
I will go home from now on,
That day is near.

Farewell to Benbecula!
Pennyland of the fords,
Dark island of my birth,
Dearly I hold
The days of old;
To you I'll never return.

So goodbye,
And for the last time I'll stay
In these dark seas of ice.
I hold the hope of our last parting,
But no hope can ever reburn
What a sweet melody it was....

Farewell to Benbecula!
By river, by shore and by sand:
Pennyland of the fords,
Dark island of my birth,
Dearly I hold
The days of old;
To you I'll never return.

To mention is to men
A thing forbid by woe,
Though beauty seems to flirt
Like first November snow.

In golden coffins then,
They dye the draggled corse;
Their hearts so often hurt,
For silence they endorse.

The truth about her beam,
A daughter should not know:
That sedentary gleam
Sets hearts and eyes aglow.

More wondrous is the dream
Of special moments shared,
When under every seam
Lies beauty undeclared.

Be hush and still again,
And never let words course;
Keep failing tongues inert,
Lest meanings well turn worse.

And though she stands overt
With grace upon the low,
To mention is to men
A thing forbid by woe.

Gazing across verdant moss carpets
And hills cut gently by the rail bridge,
A traveler paints on a platform
Undisclosed, watching the bright cove fan,
Unscaleable, into fjorded mounts.
Brush bristles blot confident masses,
Humming while the thinner brush defines,
But how can they capture in one stroke
The place where foam-film ends abruptly
And gives way to stillwater mirrors?
Or that distant rim, broad and exposed,
Where sea and sky blend and lift islands,
And white clouds roll on forevermore?

So the eagle
bold commands the plain,
and the king of
the jungle is the lion,
but one King alone
can tell the moon to wane,
or send the tempest
winds to India flyin'.

Not for honor,
men have carved the badge
of the flaming
cross upon their shields,
but to strike and go
where God hath shown,
and die among the
favored in the fields.

in my crown dream
i am a captain
i sail the seas
from age to age

blindly i wait
for't all to happen
still i am just
an icthiophage

aftermorrow i can see my fate
to rot in a cell or burn at the stake
the fruits that i ate were paltry and poor
an' i won't grow above five-foot-four

i've been way out, way far
over the top and across the line
paris, dubrovnik, leningrad
drop the pictureframe and let us unwind

mother can you tell me
how am i to carry on?
life is a jungle
entangled as the amazon

living in a coma
sheltered thoughts and faltered dreams
life as a loner
ain't much use in questioning....

on top of old smokey
eagles fly up and sing me to sleep
on top of the beat, the world is complete
the fire dies down and dark jupiter frowns

singing way out, beyond the stars
reaching the limits of venus and mars
half-glazed, half-mad
trying is lying the dying i've had

Down in the valley of the fleeting stream,
Parched Syrian tongues are crying aloud,
Below, below, the sacred river
Where war took away my sweetheart.

She was bright, now she is blue,
Like the cataracts dividing the stream,
And the tearducts dividing my eyes,
Below, below, the sacred river
Where war took away my sweetheart,

Torn in our tumult
From the bleak parade,
Starve we all like her delicate face,
Now forever blemished.

Therefore let us dine on hardtack!
Suffer for the things of the marble world;
Fast along the toiling road,
To the land of reward, we go.

I compared her to a flower:
The fairest fragrance ever conceived;
To think her smile is a nest for ants,
Below, below, the sacred river
Where death took away my sweetheart.

Alone I sit, I weep,
        My face is clenched by nightingales;
A country stained by grief,
        At night, I hear their biting wails
From ill-wrought molten blades,
        Alike to man and woman;
How can I reason fate away
        By crying o'er her *****?

Change these feelings about me!
I am eager to see her again,
But I won't obey the winds
Above, above the sacred river—
As far as the fragrance is concerned.

No more mourning in silence!
Turn your plowshares into swords,
Let the weak say, "I am strong";
We may yet have the final word,
Before the vanguard departs this world.

Oureana, Queen of Granada,
Looks from her Moorish palace veranda,
Reclined in a den of lavish repose,
Sipping sweet milk from a porcelain bowl.
Draped in damask and easter green,
She watches the soldier ride below.

“Resist your whim, don’t look at him!”
Softly comes the desperate hum
Of a servant forgot and ignored.
“For you, this sin evokes the din
Of sieging torrents, wind and war…
I wish, my friend, you’d hear again
The crack of battle nevermore.”