You busy yourselves with profit
And we stand in line For a morsel, And you oblige. And together we dance With the golden teacup, Two parts of the same thing And we've sold our souls For a turn. And deep in the gut Burns the hunger That cannot be satisfied With a thousand dinners Served on china. And the nectar Of your idol's image Steams hot into our nostrils, And we stir it round And toss it down To broil Deep in the emptiness Of all that we've desired. So sad. And now we're angry And disappointed When the music slows Or stops Or lurches forward sporadically. Turn. Turn. Turn round and round Old earth. Turn us round and round And afford us a turn With that Silence That waits At the end Of all our dainty pleasures. Give us Silence At the end of this day When the musicians go home And the streets fold up And the owls invade Our haunts. Give us peace then In all the things That we've avoided. Give us pleasure In Its sweet Song. And then let It come And dance with us And own us And sweep us off our feet And carry us deep Into Its chambers, And love us there When the moon comes out Above us In the night sky That we'd forgotten. There. There it is. Beneath the din. I hear it coming for me even now.
2 Comments
Greg O Muller
4/16/2020 07:20:55 am
Well done. Parts of it makes me think of one of the songs Jesus used to talk to me with when I was younger, "Pieces of Eight" by Styx.
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Jonathan
4/16/2020 10:30:12 am
😌
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