a stiff wind blows across the vale;
it chills me to the bone —
and warms my heart to know he’s here
and i am not alone.

he turns his face, with trembling lip,
to look me in the eyes;
the last ones left to contemplate
our broken paradise.

there used to be much more than we
who walked here hand in hand,
when worship was confined to rooms,
when love was contraband,

we danced around the fire pits
when dancing was a sin;
and left to our tomorrow'd selves
the trouble we’d be in.

we knew the forest as a friend
with all its secret shades;
the mushroom bards who played the waltz
for elves and river-maids —

but even harmless fantasy
must bow to cruel facts;
the signature of discipline
cut deep into our backs

and though my soul’s in ******* by
the promise of a ring,
and fire’s lamed the little tongue
the forest taught to sing,

the music of the memory
still haunts me in my ear —
and beckons every equinox
my heart to wander here

and here behold the home we thought
no hierophant could find:
a bed of ash, an empty vale,
his spectral form, and mine.

and they say hey hey it's okay
you can turn in your paper late
as long as it's complete
but oh the time and oh the stress
and oh my life is such a mess
and i cannot compete

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