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The last fruit clings to the tree. Down a path less worn.
Off through thick and tilled fields. I search for the blooming hay. Over near the cemetery.
What's that? A new grave. Just as I thought.
On a cold afternoon late this summer. As we pour the tar into the coffin
to seal it.
And in the wink of an eye.
The doctor drew his own circle.
The screaming begins. I'm there again.
A pecking and the rattle. Too short of a breath.
With a wind to carry me away.
As the dying garden spits it's day.
Birds and bees. Mice and worms.
The telephone calls, the air of morning.
Thinking I had the last nail in it.
But as we're plunging in the night I see it.
The field all wasted away. With its trees.
I know she'll understand. So I wait.
They say the light in heaven's the brightest one.
I've never seen it. I still want more.
##### Tearful Years
I moved through the day. So the child can be baptized.
But the old mother is raking up the weeds.
The man across the road will call.
For a bucket of water. Or a loaf of bread.
Then the day is nearly over.
But he said the light of the day
was the greatest of all.
At four o'clock
on the day after I married the young woman.
I know I'll live to be
a hundred and twenty. And for one.
And that's why I wrote it down.
It's the great poet who understands the poet's fault.
That it's the most sober of the wicked.
For the poet is the one who'd want
to kiss the image on the woman's cheek.
The prostitute's lips.
That's what the poet knows.
And he knows he'll be told it's the most sober of the wicked.
Away to the summer's end.
There's nothing but a little stump left.
Tears in the night come in dreams.
Sorrow takes the day. For the living and the dead.
The poet always understands the poet's fault.
He's the one who knows the mystery of the artist.
And the pain in the heart.
Take the street. Go by the museum.
Hire a car. The road's broad.
But the light of the day
keeps on going. So that the one who walks
and the one who runs
And he who runs can play with the life in the wings.
For an hour
there's only death to be reborn.
And then it dawns. The car is beaming
I know. I would stay like that.
Not afraid of a thing. I'm going up.
I'm going higher
on the one holy mountain.
And on that mountain in the depth of the forest.
On the house to the sun.
It shines for those in the house of the north.
In the house of the west. In the house of the east.
It shines for those in the house of the south.
On the great mountain.
My child is small.
But I'm up in the light of the day.
Yes. A little child's there with me.
And the wind and the rains
cry for the light.
But the poet keeps the secret of the pain in his heart.
He always understands the poet's fault.
The poet knows the mystery of the artist.
But the night's full of tears.
If there's a spirit beyond,
can it help you?
The Lord's face is shone through the clouds.
If it's with an angel's hand I can almost touch it.
But the poetry is in what is between the two.
The women and the men.
Men and women in the church.
With the tree's branches in the grass.
There's nothing there
but a song in the world.
And the father
is a child to the people.
But that's not what is between the two.
The poet who'll write a poem to himself.
And the one who can think of a poem for the good women.
The one who can let a man live.
We know all the year's about today.
That's how we live the life of the world.
To be there is life. To be here is death.
It seems a long death for the rich man.
And a short death for the poor.
But that's not how we live.
The child comes
in a tongue of fear and we're wise to the kingdom.
The wise is the one who's alive.
Not the one who's dead.
Because he's dead he's not alive.
The rich man
he's buried deep inside.
And the king's a dream.
That's the kingdom's law.
It's the one who's rich.
Not the one who's poor.
There's all the story in the world.
And the story of the death of the king.
It's the law of the life of the world.