"gall" poems
Pele, goddess of fire
The ocean has masked your flame
Your spirit drowned and chained
A name to which you do not recall
As though your glass
Is full of life's gall
I give you this name
Pele, of flame
That maybe your spirit be free
Escape this empty shallow sea
And use your feet to fly
Dance like the ever changing sky
Like mountain flames on distant isles
Like sparks that travel miles
Dance like the fires that burn the air
Make every step a scorching flare
That is the story I wish to tell
The story of hells angel
But here you lay on the oceans floor
You do not dance a dance no more
But once we escape this ocean of blue
I'll tell all that I meet
The story of you
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 10:17 PM UTC
You and I were different
From all the Other kids
You and I had demons
that the others never did.
You and I felt feelings
never hesitant to share.
you had Gall to say the thing
that I would never dare.
You laughed at my mock confidence
and saw right through my Show.
You showered me with compliments
that sent me all aglow.
I was a writer on the brink
of breaking down in tears;
You wrote songs that spoke about
my pain for all those years.
You watched me weary eyed and tired
when life would be me down.
You told me "Show your bravery
and get out of this town."
"Follow me," you murmured
"There's a peaceful world beyond,
free from all insanity
where we'd laugh and share and bond."
"Don't be Silly!" I'd reply,
dormant in a daze
I never thought, I never saw,
till you vanished in the haze.
Your funeral was touching:
A mirror of your presence
Your words were read--Your songs were heard;
You're memory's effervescent.
So here's to you, my fallen friend
I raise my glass in sorrow.
Because never will I say again:
"Oh, I'll tell him Tomorrow."
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
I sit here on the 2nd floor
hunched over in yellow
pajamas
still pretending to be
a writer.
some ****** gall,
at 71,
my brain cells eaten
away by
life.
rows of books
behind me,
I scratch my thinning
hair
and search for the
word.
for decades now
I have infuriated the
ladies,
the critics,
the university
suck-toads.
they all will soon have
their time to
celebrate.
"terribly overrated..."
"gross..."
"an aberration..."
my hands sink into the
keyboard
of my
Macintosh,
it's the same old
con
that scraped me
off the streets and
park benches,
the same simple
line
I learned in those
cheap rooms,
I can't let
go,
sitting here
on this 2nd floor
hunched over in yellow
pajamas
still pretending to be
a writer.
the gods smile down,
the gods smile down,
the gods smile down.
Black Sparrow "New Year's Greeting" 1992
8.6k
*i was looking at an old and tattered black and white photo of my grandfather
a man i never knew and wondered about
his existence
like a horizon of dissolution
his soul enshrined in my own
and like him and all creatures
ultimately i remain defenseless
against realities magnitude
while my father loved me as a child
he grew unkind over the years
and we where set bitterly against one another other
his tyranny and my disobedience
as i gathered strategies craft
by machinery of thought
and festering gall
he, the bully
got bullied back
by me and old age
as we in tandem set fire
to his sadistic golden age of disillusionment
and here we are now the living and the dead
still locked in a grudge
a recurring spirit of revenge
in a valley of tears
before i myself join the ephemeral legions
in a pile of stones and ashed corpses
are we not
a procession of long struggles and short pleasures
a history of terrors and creatureness
stooges bound by the wheel creation
crucified by desire
and the apathy of obliterations aftermath
an archeology of death
ruin upon ruins
has God
sinned against man
or bestowed his grace
mystified
perfect and beautiful
beyond measure
yet to be discovered
in an alternate reality?
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 10:26 AM UTC
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.
Time drives the flocks from field to fold
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.
The gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,—
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.
But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.
5.9k
Au(Or)al Tune
When (O)ppo(u)rtun(e)ity knocks –
Ah, pour that tune into me
n(O)t
just write or speak
but
/zIg:zAg/
gut--
--teral mut--
--ter yarns
With
Mouth-churn--
--ing-beat-lick--
--ings.
Half-grown seedling ([her]bal:e(X)ssen(10)ces)
into sm(O)ke
adolescent (O)re worn from being p(o)(o)r—
it was nE(X)CESSary for:
battles
birds
beats
b(O)(O)ks
bottles
bucks
b(O)nes
boys
being(bad)
sm(O)ke-rings w(ear)y with surr(end)er
stripped
v(O)wel
for
v(O)wel
thr(OU)gh the yawn: (O)nly
“(O)h.”
(O)h
… foll(O)ws
the
You’re w(or)th-knowing-ONLY-(O)nce
type of l(i)ke.
VERSE/VERSUS: the
You’re-w(or)th-knowing-AT:LEAST-(O)nce
type of l(i)ke
VERSE/VERSUS:
for (u)s
it’s the worst type of verse
when it’s
them:VERSUS:us
(verses)
likewise -- (O)r worse --
it should really be about//
a bad in (u)s: Y(O)U:ME
(O)h after a
kn(O)ck
(O)h after a
t(u)ne:://
(end)-verse
for worse – it’s an
(end)-versus-us
type of verse.
(O)ppo(u)rtun(e)ity
pouring
ringing e(X)cesses
like
ear-worms to
hear words to
heat hearts.
Ah::rest that mouth-verse onto me.
(restful//fluster)
Ah::rest that mouth
(silent//listen)
soulless gall(O)w r(u)ng
lipless v(O)wel sl(u)ng
like
ARTS::between::STARS
then
VOICES RANT ON::into::CONVERSATION
then
PAYMENT RECEIVED::yet::EVERY CENT PAID ME
worst-verse:
Y(O)u//like hanging
your dipTH(O)NGS
on (O)pportun(e)ity’s d(O)(O)r
like
sm(O)ke-rings
like
being(bad)
like
Y(O)U:ME
like
(O)h. n(O).
(end)-verse:
worst-verse:
L(I)ttle.Kn(O)wn.V(O)wel::
n(O)(O)se big for (u)s
ALL.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
Poets, the disciples of the modern world.
Followers of the great Almighty Lord of
alliteration and symbolism.
Their eccentric natures make them the pariahs of this world.
We cannot wrap our minds around
the words they artfully speak,
so we refuse to accept them.
Their eyes burn like fire in their skulls
as they stare you down from a podium.
In their hands, they hold their own hearts
which they have ripped out of their chests,
holding them out as if asking for you to accept it from them, wanting you to understand what every beat means.
Poets are misunderstood beings,
tortured creatures,
but they are far stronger than any others,
because they have the gall to speak their minds unforgivingly,
bare their most inner secrets and struggles
to an audience of strangers.
They are quick of tongue,
speaking faster than one's ear can hear,
but somehow they still manage to work themselves into your head with every word.
They're parasites,
infecting your mind and soul,
tugging at you and driving themselves into your brain
until their poems are all you think of.
But they are not evil parasites.
They hurt us and make us feel to save us.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
a lupine prayer
to bear and bull
cry wolf
cry wolf
cry wolf
now look into his eyes
until you think like I do
and then take a desperate man
for his last penny
(finance options available)
go long on a cheeky Nando's
followed by
no
inflation
constant
expansion
short the small print
and profit from the fight
against pollution by
investing in the future
but as returns don't come cheap
diversify and purify the self
the Ganges is so polluted
it has gall bladder cancer
the main economic indicators
are telling us that
inflation is set to jump, while
British statisticians are optimistic
that the housing ladder
will continue to defy gravity
as it is an export barometer
with a blue eyed quant inside
crying wolf
crying wolf
cry wolf
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 3:05 AM UTC
You once told me that when we die,
we become another star in the night.
I never really cared about your zodiac and lunar signs,
I never paid attention to the solar action shooting by,
You'd wonder if it's magic plans or broken scrap that flew the skies,
You were psychedelic dresses, I was only wrapped in suit and tie,
It never blew my mind until I finally gave your truth a try,
I glimpsed the puzzle pieces in the time before the moon would rise,
A tapestry on galaxies, depicting myths, and human lies,
I guess you proved me wrong again, I was quick to scrutinize.
Now, I'm studying the subjects and sitting in observatories,
Thinking back to when I'd write them off before I heard the stories,
Earth is boring now you're gone, I hope you're up there yearning for me,
Every star's a soul, I'd see you but there's nothing worse than stormy
Nights and light pollution, it's a blinding kind of nuisance,
I'd be admiring your fusion but the sky has turned translucent,
But still I'm plotting charts of stars, I'm always making observations,
Waiting for the day I get to see your face in constellations.
I wanna chase you forever, whether heaven or hell, I'll go,
Can't let you float away, I'll take a world tour with my telescope,
The way I speed through hemispheres, this night will be the death of me,
But otherwise I'd only see you half the year, you're my Persephone,
I'll trek from Arctic harbors, give binoculars to polar bears,
Shiver in my igloo, hands together, say a hopeful prayer,
And no, I won't be lonely there, your soul will be a solar flare,
You'll whisper an aurora, northern lights to let me know you care.
I'll whistle Canis Major and Minor, and let Orion guide me,
I'm quite unlikely to quit, what kind of guy would I be?
To search the Seven Sisters for an eighth and get inside their psyche?
I'll question Cassiopeia, Cygnus, and Pisces nicely,
Ask if they've seen something fishy, and then I'll talk to Taurus,
An orbit tourist, I'm daunted without the gall to forfeit,
So if you're gone, then I'm glad that this was all you taught me,
I live each day for the night and just endure the morning.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 3:50 PM UTC
If I am to dig graves for the rest of my life
I wish to do it with my hair long and proud,
Swinging at the small of my back as a testament of
Will in the face of adversity,
Grown by the fruits of my labor.
I want to harvest the nectar
From the pear tree on my horizon
And when I eat my fill,
I will just as easily leave the sweetness behind,
Before it spoils and then,
I will look the hurricane in the eye and laugh,
Because I know it will baptize the earth
And my pear tree will be waiting for the day
This nomad returns to her roots.
If I am to choose between
A false lover and Uncertainty in the North
I want to have the gall to say,
“Brother, come at eight.”
I want to have the self-control
To lower the gun on a man,
Whose mind is a dank closet full of spiders.
By then, I must be ready to venture out,
And risk this Uncertainty in the North.
If I am to take my revenge,
I wish to do so without collateral damage,
And if I do,
I want everyone to learn that revenge
Will stab you with your own rapier
And that I am the kind of person,
Who will make you drink your own wine,
Because, in the end,
We are all sinners.
If I am to write propaganda to support
A nauseating turn of society,
I would rather be exiled.
Iceland, Siberia, The Ministry of Love:
They are all the same,
Because I will come out a different person
For better or for worse.
I wish to have the strength to cut my hair
Because I will not hesitate
To cut ties with anyone,
Who stands in the way of my passion.
I must be unorthodox
If I see my fellow men
Following in each other’s footsteps, with their eyes closed.
I will scream it in the streets,
“The world is not pretty.”
If I am to be unorthodox,
I wish to have faith,
Strong enough not to be undone by mere chance,
Strong enough so I can watch the coin fall:
Heads.
Heads.
Heads.
Accepting that I will one day die.
And if it involves a ship,
I will be its captain.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
n. A homesickness for somewhere you cannot return to, the nostalgia and grief for the lost places of your past, places that never were.
insatiability makes its burrow
in my gall bladder,
wringing bile from the *****
craving toxins to purge.
i thirst for sweet lexical gaps,
holes in patterns,
dots that don't make shapes
but still gladly connect
komorebi
n. The sunlight that filters through the leaves of the trees
loveliest in the distinction
it is only komorebi
once filtered, green soul
bleeding through
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy Love.
But Time drives flocks from field to fold;
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither—soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,—
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy Love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy Love.
3.8k
Ordnance of the wealthy, corrupt
Sculpting the public image.
Garnishing with admiration, cloaking gall.
Mass ****** and grand larceny
Have to, in some way, come clean in the books.
Money is fabricated out of thin air.
Know that you don’t know anything.
When debt is created, pockets are lined
This is the white way in a dark world.
When the receipts are missing, the cash is stashed.
Black must then become white for the sake of tax.
All of this ultimately boils down to charity.
Deplorable or reliable, evil or honest
Easiest way to wash the attic and eyes of the tax officers.
Feigning effigies and respect in the face of media
As they donate to those they’ve stolen from with a hearty smile.
Neither will recognize, but be eternally grateful the other exists.
Just another excuse to wake up in the morning and not feel awful.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC
Conceited, arrogant, rude, ignorant, narcissistic, gall.
In order to care for another,
you must first want what they want,
Feel what they feel,
and know what they need.
True caring,
can only be found when two souls
become intertwined,
tied in an inseparable knot.
Once you can feel what someone else feels,
when you can see what they see,
how they see it,
when they see it.
When you are able to know a person
so well that you know what they want,
when they want it,
and how they want it.
How they will react to something,
disgust,
love,
hate.
When you know what a person wants
and you do everything in your power to
aid them,
help them,
guide them to their goal.
Then you know what true caring is.
So don't tell me you care,
because you bought me some shoes.
Don't tell me you care,
because you took me home,
when that's the last place I wanted to be.
Don't tell me you care,
because when I cried out for help,
Spilled my guts in hopes you could find a way to save me,
you told me to clean up the mess and get over it.
You don't care.
Not about me.
Not about anyone.
Anyone but yourself.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
under the sludge of this depression, I am awake. it’s morning outside but that doesn’t change a thing.
tiredness takes me to quiet places. I follow like I’m devout.
this forest is new. there’s a drumming of a heartbeat within the trunks of these trees.
it thrums under my fingertips. blood rushes forward to touch this rhythm.
songbirds nest, plume against plume for love and for rest. the birdsong is sweet as saccharine.
I taste the sap on my lips, its nectar, thick with agape. a salve for myriad laments under the roof of a single bell jar.
the indigo sky convulses, telling of fortunes. the clouds retch gilded roses.
blades of grass fence the circumferences of leaves in gypsy winds. the forest warms like a flame.
my body sways in solipsistic wonder. the crescents of my nails are crusted with lichen.
my limbs are drawn into its boughs, like gravity. like the bark is starved.
my mind is foliage and my crown is littered with inflorescence. my sky is finally cerulean and lilac.
each gall is an ancient hurt. each wound is a knot.
I breathe my mourning. I wait to bloom.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 3:07 AM UTC
the angels are the sound
we hear when we make love
you say its profound
i say its profane
you say its love
i say its in vain
still i wish you'd hold me closer
and take away my pain
you say i'm a fool
i say you are too
so lets make love
and maybe then
we'll cool down a bit tonight
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
Take your pills, open wide
Swallow it with your pride
It’s a cure, overdose
Keep your head down and your mouth closed
We’re so
We know
We’re shallow
I know
You can call it narcissism
You can blame it on materialism
Our delusions, indecision
Children of the Great Recession
Update status
Pop a Xanax
There was texting
Now we’re setxing
We have the gall to have a sense
Of undeserved entitlement
We’re over educated and unemployed
Apathetic and annoyed
We’re so
We know
We’re shallow
I know
You can call it narcissism
You can blame it on materialism
Our delusions, indecision
Children of the Great Recession
Pictures reblogged
Arteries clogged
Kandi kids
Digital natives
Anxiety, can’t concentrate
As obesity permeates
What will happen? Time will tell
And remind us of Y2K and when the towers fell
We’re so
We know
We’re shallow
I know
You can call it narcissism
You can blame it on materialism
Our delusions, indecision
Children of the Great Recession
Lets the bass drop
Generation lost
It’s hard to live
When you’re hypersensitive
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 5:30 PM UTC
hole in the sky. tap tap, the empty vessel flows out. a weightless sink. the hour goes, blaring swell of humidity, and the jug lukewarm, leaven oft in the barred space. I return to my room. I drink the cold milk on the sill. I finish the third wretched spill of the journey to Olympus.
Downstairs a howl, a wind slam SOLOM OBSERVATIONAL MATRIX STRUCTURED TASKS AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY TO ASSIST WITH INSTRUMENTAL DECISIONS. I close the door I close the door I close the door I close the
In this uneasy slumber, the bed shakes, the windows rattle, the sky splits, the earth floods a red simpering capitulatory spasm of earthly flesh. Here is the circuit, the tired nervous tic of inaction, I shrink back from the outstretched hand, a condition which recommends two pills in the morning to mask the double image beneath my hands.
i have slept through the week again, this pathetic flesh obeys nothing, where are my pills inescapable ******* dullery
THE JUG IS HOT. I return to my room. I close the door two pills on the sill to go down with the milk
THE DOOR SLAMS GALL BUCKLING FIT ODE BREATHLESS CLOSER CLOSER CLOSER BUT THE SOUND REMAINS
Figures muffled by the walls. There are guests in the house, the looming presence of multiple species with incomprehensible intentions. In a bout of uncharacteristic curiosity, I slip my sight through the crack of my door. UNDER RCG IT WILL BE MANDATORY FOR ALL CUSTOMS CARGO REPORTERS IN THE AIR SEA AND ROAD INDUSTRIES TO SUBMIT REPORTS TO SARS ELECTRONICALLY. I am unmoved by such perceptions. I prepare the final climb to Olympus.
the cyclone is ended. the front door is barred. the jug is cold. the yard is littered with unmoving shapes.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 11:19 PM UTC
It takes courage to be born in a grave
where the earthworms caress
and the night is like day.
But where two or three are gathered
they will burrow deeper yet,
pressing the earth to their faces.
It takes gall to bite the mouth that eats you,
little rocket ships
who never left the ground.
Launch your cultured pungent taste,
for if you must go,
go loudly.
Daikon, Cherry Belle, Easter Egg,
Black Spanish, Red King,
you are conquerers.
Digging away until the sun comes to find you,
blushing in myriad shades
of fearless ambition.
It takes integrity to never leave your roots.
Break bold and crisp,
candied keg of gunpowder.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
It is my conviction
That life began inside of a dimly lit corridor.
Not with a flash of brilliant light,
Inside of the creator's grand hall.
Not even in the decency of a simple room,
No.
It was an accident that happened when the Gods tripped over their robes,
Simply walking
On their way to the heavenly mess hall for coffee and a drag,
Shaking the proverbial gold dust off of their feet
So that it slipped through the cracks in the marble
And crystallized in random little patterns,
Wherever they happened to step.
Beauty, some are bold enough to call it.
And I'll find it on my face sometimes,
Those golden remnants,
When the weather is warm and I've eaten a little less that day.
I will linger in my mirror to see where they've landed
As I whisper sweet nothings to myself,
Wishing I were worthy of these repercussions of
The Great Biochemical Accident.
But once in a while,
Someone will come along who tells me that I'm wrong.
Once in a while,
Somebody has enough gall,
Somebody has enough, call it grace,
To peel those golden freckles from my face,
And to hold them gently in their palm,
Perceiving them to be precious.
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 8:40 AM UTC
I am not depressed
I’m just deflated
Out of style and over-dressed
At second-best, I’m overrated
An old birthday balloon
(Out of breath, somewhat bated)
I hum my jingles out of tune
One-hit-wonders soon outdated
Like a song without sound
Mourning a muted meltdown
I’m at the point of no concern
For my inability to yearn
I am -
Whatever comes after
The past, the future
The cries, and the laughter
I remain –
Whatever came before
The purple rain, the midnight train
The ****** and the *****
I am a pixelated painting
Understood by few
Inexplicably containing
Little drops of you
You’re my middle C
A sepia photograph
Of my mundane eulogy
And my previous epitaph
You are my bitter half
The gall in my bladder
My nervous laugh
My endless chatter
You’re my history rewritten
My once shy, twice-bitten
My state-of-the-art
You’re the bottom of my heart
The top of my lungs
You’re my talking in tongues
The motivational quote
In my suicide note
And although I’ll never be free
From this heart on my sleeve
I’ll always wish you to be
The Adam to my Eve.
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 2:18 AM UTC
--I. M. Edward John Henley (1861-1898)
Where are the passions they essayed,
And where the tears they made to flow?
Where the wild humours they portrayed
For laughing worlds to see and know?
Othello's wrath and Juliet's woe?
Sir Peter's whims and Timon's gall?
And Millamant and Romeo?
Into the night go one and all.
Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed?
The plumes, the armours--friend and foe?
The cloth of gold, the rare brocade,
The mantles glittering to and fro?
The pomp, the pride, the royal show?
The cries of war and festival?
The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow?
Into the night go one and all.
The curtain falls, the play is played:
The Beggar packs beside the Beau;
The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid;
The Thunder huddles with the Snow.
Where are the revellers high and low?
The clashing swords? The lover's call?
The dancers gleaming row on row?
Into the night go one and all.
Envoy
Prince, in one common overthrow
The Hero tumbles with the Thrall:
As dust that drives, as straws that blow,
Into the night go one and all.
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