What is the point in singing today-
When songbirds lie dead in your head?
What is the point in dancing today-
When the rain clouds have all fled?
In the little sky between your fingers,
You write prose in stranger tongues-
And in the little blue patch on your palm,
You carry skeletons of love ballads unsung.
Your prose speaks of smiles-
Which gleamed like the torch Prometheus stole,
And your palm tells stories that the leaves left incomplete -
Before they got blown.
As the world is lulled to sleep today-
By the soft song of the newborn wind,
Let us not talk of the days lived-
Long ago in a light year now swept away clean.
For, what is the point in talking today-
When poetry has been long dead?
What is the point in living today-
When all our hearts have bled?