the sunlight warms the grateful earth;
the river slides into the sea.
the mirror shows an endless void:
there must be something wrong with me;

the breeze caresses laughing boughs
like blossoms nuzzled by the bee,
but on my face it's numb and cold:
there must be something wrong with me;

according to these other views,
there’s beauty that i cannot see —
and since the error’s not in them:
there must be something wrong with me.

i’ve never touched a Snow —
yet of the cold and of the dark
there’s Something — that i know

the — Torture of December
to long to see the Sun
when every Day is — Struggle
not every Day is won

my life has been a Summer
in September — quick and false
like Mayflies on an Apple
or a Leaflet when it falls —

a Sigh against a Window —
a Crash against the Sea —
and once i close the Windows
i will not see to see

she steps between the boards onstage;
she knows which ones will creak.
the days repeat, the setting stays:
she knows it’s her we seek.

although the curtain’s long been dropped,
she will not end the show;
for we will find her when she stops;
it’s her we seek, she knows.

emma, emma, you have lost;
i’m sorry, but it’s true.
so listen to the man you trust
and let him come to you.
emma, you will come to us,
no matter what you do.

our meteor glows a starry blue,
our spores dance in the air,
our audience cheers (they cheer for you!)
she screams, but no-one’s there.

and when we meet, when we embrace,
(a scene learned from her dreams)
she looks for him inside our face
but no-one’s there. she screams.

emma, emma, you have lost
your way, but we are here.
and as we made the man you trust
into the man you fear,
emma, you have come to us,
and we will make you hear.

she struggles as we hold her down;
she still rejects our peace,
but as she hears our hallowed sound,
she weeps at her release.

our blueness heals her broken bone
that rigor mortis keeps,
and one with all, and all alone,
at her release, she weeps.

emma, emma, you have lost
so much, but we have gained
the music of the man you trust,
the music of your pain.
emma, you have come to us
to join in our refrain;
emma, you have come to us
to sing in our domain.

it is things we need to live that need our money
that our toil is multiplying every turn.
tell me you, what is the point of having bosses
if they do not give the workers what they earn?

do not work to fill the pockets of your bosses
for who sets the catch around here, sets the cost
tell me you, what is the point of having money
if it only means our stolen labour lost?

tell me you, what is the point of having borders?
who can tell me how much earth and sky they own?
tell me you, what is the point of hoarding treasure
when you cannot, lonesome, eat all you have grown?

by tomorrow, or tomorrow, we’ll be ready
all the people will be free, or they’ll be dead
we will ration out the milk of human kindness
and we’ll grind the bones of billionaires for bread

they stormed out the corners, the screamers, the signs,
all black. but no longer occult.
i tried to walk past all the mourners in lines,
but my heart was my pillar of salt.
can heaven forgive me that i could not come?
please carry my soul to your flame!
i’ll tend to my garden and pray you reach home —
but i know that it isn’t the same.
though clouds round you gather, each knight noble stands;
the rain is the least of the cost.
o sable crusaders, my hand in your hands,
i will march with the ghosts of the lost.

Shall I march into the sea tonight?
The lighthouse-keeper asks.
The light is lit; the wind is wound;
I have no other tasks.
The rains have cycled fifty times
Since they last turned on me;
Shall I bar the windows shut tonight,
or march into the sea?

Who will find me lost at sea tonight?
The lighthouse-keeper thinks,
When shepherds turn their flock indoors,
And the barkeep turns to drink.
I am the lighthouse-keeper, but
I do not have to be;
They'll find another keeper when
They find me lost at sea.

And if the sea won't take me, love,
The lighthouse-keeper sighs,
No candle on my windowsill
Is watched by no-one's eyes —
No shadow's crossed my threshold's bounds
Since I was thirty-three —
With stones inside my pockets
Let me march into the sea.

Give me no pauper's funeral,
The lighthouse-keeper sings,
Though scant be the inheritance
You'll cobble from my things.
If my debtors come a-calling,
Tell them, forfeit every fee —
Or, if they are truly greedy,
Let them find me lost at sea.

this little piece of amethyst
was from a geode broke,
and now, beheld, it calmly sits
as if it were bespoke.
between my palms, my hands betwixt,
the stars are enveloped,
and thereupon my eyes are fixed:
a universe of hope.