The vacant streets emptied of life,
the tiny flicker, teased and now far, gone...
Oh where, where, I ask, to search that distant skylark,
in the boughs darkened with soot of distance,
or on the waters deep with waves of mistrust?
Oh how, how, I ask, is it to reach,
that twig on which fluttered the single leaf,
the branch, dried in winter's wrath,
where lay in peace skylark with its song?
Deliverance, my lame saint, I cry,
deliverance from this quest,
for I was not
one designed to sit and wait,
fiddled is my restless soul, earnest...
If only lied this heart of curiosity,
or in silence, remained in a desolate moor,
if only existence meant slumbers,
in a ship destined to moor,
I, with all grace would embrace silence,
but life is earnest, it is swift,
and I curious, with time do drift...
In these moments where I see myself shiver,
I ask, did I mistake a hailstorm for shower?
Harboured my thoughts, anchored my love,
I pause, and cast the thought lantern on that lonely beach...
Humour, ah destined end,
for now in this moment,
there is nothing that I see...
Down to the old man's play,
resigned and resting,
I humour the Old Saint,
with my lame gait and
I ask the Lame Saint a question for which he smiles,
I wonder what humour he finds in my trials,
yet I persist, I ask again,
Where is the skylark,
who sang so sweet?
I am met with silence, he chooses to sleep...