Changes - ...And Finally (split with Andrew King, 2005) | Текст песни

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• ...And Finally (split with Andrew King, 2005)

Col. Kurtz (M. Brando): “We are the hollow men. We are the stuffed men. Leaning together. Headpiece filled with straw. Alas. Our dried voices when we whispered together are quiet and meaningless as wind in dry grass. Or rat’s feet over broken glass…”

Photographer (D. Hopper): “Oooohh, he’s out there.”

Kurtz: “..in our dry cellar..”

Photographer: “He’s really out there.”

Kurtz: “Shape without form. Shade without color. Paralyzed force. Gesture without motion…” 38

Make now, O’ Muse, your crystal voice
Sing strong within my soul
Forge hard the links which join my words
In triumph’s tune and passion’s dirge.
Grant me, O’ Muse, your gifts to gaze
Thy lofty overview;
And to grasp the flowing surge of time
In each moment’s interlude.

Do I dare?
Do I dare disturb the universe?
Do I dare not disturb the universe
As its hour of decision draws near?
Do I, or you, or they dare refrain
As the crucial junctions of the gyres coincide,
Evade the true direction we must take?
For even ‘mid the tranquility
Of one sun swept summer’s day
I have witnessed wisps of white and airy clouds
Whirl into perfect place
And form the image of our age
Across the sky’s blue face.
And there, above the white sand
And diamond sea at dawn,
These very eyes have stared,
Transfixed, in awe
On Kali’s deft and deathly dance
With myriad legs and arms
Which moved with perfect
God-like grace of swiftest
Movement formed.

The day grows old and time - time wears thin,
And ten-thousand years in the balance lies.
The die be cast. Will the curtain fall?
Will twilight spread her cloak
Of raven-night and swallow all?
O’ son of man, whatever be –
Humber worker or king’s descent –
Awake thy eyes! Shake loose thy mind!
Make firm thy heart!
For uncertain fate now beckons forth.
Rumbles of Ragnarok,
Though distant, draw near.
Even now, the order of battle forms,
And still…
The merchant tallies his gain and his loss,
And still…
The priest with rusty nail
Hammers another soul to his cross!
O’ Dragon sleeping in blood of vein,
Awake from out thy pulse-beat cave.
Make manifest the forgotten fury of thy flame;
Quench full thy forked-tongue thirst of flame.

Do I dare to eat a peach?
Yes I dare to eat a peach,
And to spit the pit full-force
In the eye of an Anglican priest.
Do I dare to turn?
Yes! To turn I dare;
To face the facts full front, and to stare!
Nor shall fatalism be my faith,
Nor shall church chapels be my hiding place,
Nor shall starched white collars and tailored suits
Be my public face,
Nor limped resignation be my guiding trait,
Nor bowler hats, or interest rates,
Nor bankers’ hours and flat dry speech.
Yes, indeed.
I’ll eat a peach.
Though April be the cruelest month,
She ushers in the spring.

Toward the future alone
Shall I direct my thoughts,
Leaving memory to rot.
I shall go north in the summer,
There to bury desire
Beneath a drift of snow,
And I shall not sell cheaply
My birthright
For a published book of poems,
Nor sever roots of kinship,
Ties of friendship, or of home.
The failed hero,
The Judas priest,
The timid poet of stuttered speech
All flee the arena
When the shots ring loud,
And wonder lonely as a cloud.
Then enter now the Chosen One –
Son of the Sun and the lightning’s flash –
Who follows the spirit of his genes
And the wisdom of his blood.
Poet?
Yes!
And shaman priest,
Warrior chief or harper king;
Prometheus, fire-thief –
Seeker, bearer of the holy Light
Pinioned high
Beneath the grim and ashen sky;
First and last and sacrificed,
Champion of the endless fight.

Too far ashore am I
To hear the mermaid sea,
But whispers on the wind
Bring their plaintive song to me.
I need not guess, for I can say
Irminsul’s roots clutch fast
The core of time now spent.
Its branches bud and broadly spread
Out toward the future tense.
The fragments fit.
Mandalic images emerge as one.
The ancient gods awake,
Brush off the dust of the past millenniums,
And stride green earth again!
What say the Norms and Council seat?
Shall Ragnarok begin?
Or shall we lull them all to sleep,
And triple on the fun?

And in the end…
The poem which does not speak,
The song which is not sung.
Shackled in printers ink,
The time-worn words,
Verbal ciphers on the book’s thin page;
Fossilized thought-forms,
Frozen in time,
Static in space,
Tinder for the final flame.
And in the end…
The vacant womb,
The narrow mannequin hips,
The empty arms,
The barren breasts,
All victims
To a fruitless intelligence.
And in the end…
A literate mass of men
Incapable of thought,
Unwilling to act,
Whose souls are sold and bought,
Slump lethargic
Before the mesmerizing screen,
Lost, lost in their video dream.
And in the end…
Those hollow men
At fate’s cruel call
Reduced to an ash-smudge
On the asphalt street,
An empty echo of the neutron’s roar.

And finally,
This is the way the world ends;
This is the way the world ends;
This is the way the world ends;
Not with a bang, nor with a whimper,
But with the mystic words thrice whispered:

Rebirth…
Rebirth…
Rebirth…

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