in the song of robin and blackbird
Creator signs His Name
A name that can be seen and heard
by those who shun acclaim

in the work of scribe and artist
shines the inner being
in the music of drum or harpist
speaks the soul all-seeing

in the works o' nefarious schemer
in dark destruction and death
in the silence that shouts like a screamer
in the absence of life-breath

walks the many-faced serpent schemer
for those with eyes to see
the signature of the anti-redeemer
antithesis of eternity

for every person stamps their name
in the deeds they do
igniting hellish fires 'n flame
or letting G-d shine through

so don't be flummoxed by this world
keep your eyes on your goal
for as cherry, almond, or walnut burled
your acts bespeak your soul

they tell a tale 'bout a bottle filling with all the tears
shed from all the pain 'n misery of all the years
all the suffering, all the tortures,
all the plundering from earth-scorchers
all the famine and the fever and the fears

and when that bottle's reached its limit will be the time
when salvation awoken starts its clock to chime
when war and famine end
humanity grief amends
and forgotten will be the ache and gloom of crime

what kind of bottle is it that never fills
regardless of the slain and horde of kills,
regardless of the river
of blood and pain and shiver
unending on the hard earth flows 'n spills?

my dove,
I still remember - the day I found you
your perfume wafting o'er distant waters,
i smelt you from afar,
frankincense, myrrh, myrtle o' young daughters.

beloved,
you came to me from afar.
Time had no meaning, as you held me in your love,
You gazed at me,
your pure eyes calling me dove.
But now you're gone.
And life has lost its meaning.

my dove,
i let you go,
i let you fly over many waters.
i deemed it wiser -- for us both
but my dove, i love you still.
and i'm still here, on the hill.

beloved,
till hoary days i'll remember your voice
though they look at me askance
in simulacrum of life,
they ask me to dance
to tune of flute 'n fife
but i hear not,
for i cannot, save in you, rejoice.

as the waves of the sea
hitting wharf rhythmically
as the suckling of the babe
past midnight hour on astrolabe
is the cooing of the dove
in the silence of alcove

like the call of the cuckoo
as sweet spring breaks forth anew
as the hoot of tawny owl
'midst the canine's nightly howl
is the cooing of the dove
in the silence of alcove

as an angel drawing near
whispering secrets in my ear
as the mysteries of world beyond
juxtaposed to burning pond
is the cooing of my dove
in the silence of alcove

Awake! arise! the hour is late!
Angels are knocking at thy door!
They are in haste and cannot wait,
And once departed come no more.

Awake! arise! the athlete’s arm
Loses its strength by too much rest;
The fallow land, the untilled farm
Produces only weeds at best.