I have rehersed this death

I was busy in prayer, my nerves came. The night is still. I have rehearsed this death a thousand times, forgetful now of what I most wanted to say

Love has been good to me, more than a penitent dare, and the small discoveries I have made have come in between

It is a lousy profession buried in whiskered lilies and curious urges of faith, gods who know nothing of the weather, and ice sculptors who masquerade in a fire's eternal glow

Was it different in the courts of Nephalia, where serenes and shyness filled the night air? I am wearied of this song. Rehearsed this death a thousand times

Followed this song to the hybrid moon, held to myself its secrets. The yawning traffic that follows me now, everywhere, mocks my kinship and cowards' despair

It is a burden, knowing how the epic blossom falls. I say nothing in doom of beginnings and ends. We have learned, ambiguously, to engage. The fallen empire, the dunderhead of known history, and the endless chatter of priests

And I, a gilsman, who fell on some luck and learned to tell the truth. The prayer is done, the praying is done, there is nothing left to do

It is not the shape of things, or their entourage, but their inevitability, that finally we must endure. The sun, its failing grace, one last time invoke, because it is near

And the rain, again, wets its clouds over ocean floors. Kettle bells, an army night. In its swamp, the unspeakable beginning of time. The monk's own dance, finally taken in its solemn way