Play your lyre for me once more
down by the great river just as it
was in older days when we were
unwise and smooth skinned.

When the transcended sound
of it never failed to comfort
my mourning soul.
Its heroic breath, without fail or
weakness, dispelled the thick
pungent smoke of my distress
that clung to me.

Pleasantly, I recall those days when
nature sat still and shut its mouth
and opened its ears to listen to the
beauty you produced with the sharp
skill of your fingers and the creative
wit of your mind.

These were the common happenings
and not of the strange or unnatural.
The blissful days when we were free
from the molesting hands of hardship
and evil.

When we spoke of cloud shapes that
glided across the mighty blue plain
that hung over our heads on a clear
day rather than intellect and the
poetic nature of love and disease.

Will you then, once more, open
the gates of your soul and meet
me there at the entrance?
May I enter through the threshold
of your heart?

Grant me entrance to that heaven
I once knew and let your spirit shine
in my presence, brother! And with a
great hope I’ll hope that perhaps
it may blind me and make
me unfit for the likes of reality.