the mist blows stout along the road of scree, and fingers
sallow on the charcoal lay;
the leaden soil wails from its coffined cinders.
drink up, mate; the soil has its own say.
there’s one rough grove that teaches how to bear, one draught
that strips the leaves and leaves the stem.
you find the weight of sorrow everywhere,
but ah, the leaves return, and you’re still there.
we forsooth are not those
who bow when tempests call, nor clay
to keep the print of passing hands;
**** their truce that asks for nothing small,
and drink, to all the havoc it commands.
my friend, let others seek the calm
that wanes the pulse, or curl
like thatch beneath the punic wind;
the hours pass, and leave us none the less,
let us drink, for all the world has sinned.
these stones are soaked and cut by years, my lad.
you’ll count each ridge and every wale you bear;
the storm and hail will shape them as it steers, and none of it
will make this earth more fair.
if here today the grit is slick with rain, tomorrow
it will shine for other feet;
the grove will mutter mirth and veil in vain, and you and i
will reckon what we meet.
the rifts are ours, as we endure the blows.
my friend, the dust will settle as it ought.
we lift this weight, as any fool well knows--
and are you still drinking that?
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 5:18 AM UTC
the mist blows stout along the road of scree, and fingers
sallow on the charcoal lay;
the leaden soil wails from its coffined cinders.
drink up, mate; the soil has its own say.
there’s one rough grove that teaches how to bear, one draught
that strips the leaves and leaves the stem.
you find the weight of sorrow everywhere,
but ah, the leaves return, and you’re still there.
we forsooth are not those
who bow when tempests call, nor clay
to keep the print of passing hands;
**** their truce that asks for nothing small,
and drink, to all the havoc it commands.
my friend, let others seek the calm
that wanes the pulse, or curl
like thatch beneath the punic wind;
the hours pass, and leave us none the less,
let us drink, for all the world has sinned.
these stones are soaked and cut by years, my lad.
you’ll count each ridge and every wale you bear;
the storm and hail will shape them as it steers, and none of it
will make this earth more fair.
if here today the grit is slick with rain, tomorrow
it will shine for other feet;
the grove will mutter mirth and veil in vain, and you and i
will reckon what we meet.
the rifts are ours, as we endure the blows.
my friend, the dust will settle as it ought.
we lift this weight, as any fool well knows--
and are you still drinking that?