i lit one candle, then i lit two,
i lit another and I thought i was through,
but then a fourth popped up together with his brother,
then a sixth, and a seventh, and an eighth and another,
i said, "hello? are you a ninth light?
the menorah has eight, to light up the night,
where can i put you, where d'you fit in?"
said he, "i'm the servant, i'm the linchpin!
I'm the one who makes the others give light;
You won't hear about me, i keep out of sight,
down below, high above, i'm not of the eight,
but without me they're nothing, so don't underrate
the schlepper, the beadle, the one behind scenes,
we're the join in the seams to make life what it means.

he doff'd his cap, all suave and urbane,
i am the idol you serve in vain,
i am the recognition of people around,
ephemeral honour to which you are bound,
as you can see i'm nothing but air
it's all in your mind. I'm not really there.

he sat by himself
the man by the fire
sipping his wine
nursing his ire
thinking of those times, of the years gone by,
the children laughing, the jostle, the cry,
watching them grow, each in their fashion,
this one was gentle, this one with passion,
now they're gone as moonlight that flitters,
he's left with those thoughts, a memory that glitters,
the wars of love, of hurt and despair,
as he sips his red wine, alone in his chair.

If all the world were monochrome,
black and white like a funeral home,
layers of grey of different shades,
gloom and doom of deepest hades

if colour was something you read of in book,
an out-world experience of an LSD hook,
then all at once someone switched on the light
and wow what a difference before you in sight

how your spirits would lift as you looked round in wonder
at the greens and the mauves and the blues over yonder,
the bricks of the wall in shades of red coral,
the yellows and limes of the willow and laurel,
faces of scarlet, of softness of pink,
depth and complexity of a master craft's ink,
what a wonderful world that would be to be in,
aye --- a wonderful it is, to be in.

hah hah! human hate hackles,
laughter lunges long lacerators,
carves crucifying cutting crackles
covert cutthroat collaborators.

until when the falling petals
until when the drops of blood
until when the wasted essence
until uncurls new flowerbud

a drop of ink on parchment
lines spreading black on white
so the soul in flesh apartment
spreads its rays in black of night