A wise man, without any real sense at all,
Reads his papers behind his great wisdom.
A gravedigger grieving with no crystal ball
Runs aground on his Stygian kingdom.
And the man with the strings that make not a sound
Plays his hands with the sound of his words,
And the soldier who cannot attend his own ground
Leaves his post now to run with the herds.
And the mother still huddled in an unmade bed,
Her head in a nightmarish sleep
With her child who cries but cannot be fed
Swallows pride to be buried so deep
And the sea that is swollen with swimmers insane
Turns axes to practise its run
While the hurricane eye blinks once again
At the smoking recoil of the gun.
And what do you call it when history speaks
And shoulders are wept on again?
You'll call it the way that all people seek
On the ships purgatorial main.