september and the butterflies still flit
from bloom to bloom trees manage still to sway
in gentle time in nature's smoothest play
while i am still alive to smile at it
my heart and mind have found the truest grit
is not in words nor in what good folk say
but in the patterns of the everyday
in ready laughter and in honest wit
there are no angels waiting for my soul
nor gods in the beyond with secrets grand
ready to weigh my spirit for its worth
i take this journey for a single whole
the good i do must come from a kind hand
and honest tears are good with honest mirth

there's little room for laughter nor for wit
in a beige room with a good downtown view
learning that not all good comes with the new
and breathing in the scents of bile and ****
you learn then all  the signals of hard grit
but night and day someone must turn the *****
the pain will come as much as you are due
and you must sleep now for a little bit
love is sustained upon a sea of tears
though brotherhood itself may seem to fail
in curtest questions still you can draw breath
surprise yourself that you withstood your fears
and are arrived to laugh about this tale
since by a hair you walked away from death

mischief is made by those who hate all peace
and want us all within hard walls and gates
with loudest words and after harsh debates
they'll order silence and demand we cease
turbulent thoughts that challenge their caprice
command each soul into narrow estates
and keep each heart distinct from its best mates
just so that love and light may both decrease
they call it summer when they see it snow
mistake  the cold for some redeeming balm
and bid us all accept the freezing rain
out of the north claiming they see it glow
with ready warmth they tell us all is calm
that all is gentle that we're past all pain

who saw the flame and saw us put it out
was not the first but fell soon into line
marching in order that was the design
both for the wayward and the most devout
seemingly magic but we dare to pout
noting this sourness far from the divine
where modern forces just cannot combine
and older strength no longer is so stout
assert what's true in spite of all this heat
it will not matter no one will be told
the proper story what is is to fail
in our sad hour this token of defeat
is valued more than coin of hoarded gold
while honesty remains so long on sale

in no great haste to change the solemn art
that deals with those who cannot render ease
in modern terms we make a florid start
presenting our regards upon our knees
as if our thoughts were villain amputees
regarding with some horror how the strain
of vision reaching through this veil of rain
has no effect on motion nor on rate
all in the end must seep into the brain
where only losers claim to lead the state

both rich and poor rub shoulders in the mart
while finding nothing that could truly please
an honest mind or else a yearning heart
since all the market has is hopping fleas
and some lost objects baking in the breeze
there's not a single value to retain
and all our hope might just go down the drain
as laughing gargoyles seem to contemplate
you cannot speak except now to complain
where only losers claim to lead the state

no one today would ever give a ****
for decent laws or honest high decrees
the vultures wait until the wolves depart
then each devours the carrion that it sees
there's no means left the monster to appease
just throw another **** upon the wain
since we have read the signal very plain
the door is shut and rescue's come too late
all that is left is one more ugly stain
where only losers claim to lead the state

prince as you look out from the morning train
you'll see the same old shadow once again
don't think of it as duty nor as fate
that's just a path that leads you to more pain
where only losers claim to lead the state

pale yellow blooms under a silver tree

out of a legend that we do not know

this warm reminder with its pallid glow



absent all anger absent too all glee

for a short season we absorb the show

pale yellow blooms under a silver tree



so magic fills the air and what we see

is all the ground covered in golden snow

a lovely moment if we let it be

pale yellow blooms under a silver tree

go up the rise and look down on the sea
ten miles away the moon is setting now
this is a moment which will long allow
warm recollection both of bird and tree
there's nothing here right now would disagree
that time is perfect but we can't endow
life and eternity instead the plough
pushes it under where we cannot see
lost to us all and so left far behind
are all those things only half understood
but not then wanted since the childish voice
is not the speaker for the full-grown mind
nor can we tell yet what is truly good
when we are forced to make a final choice