Do not go gentle
Rage, rage.
Old age should burn into that good night;
the dying of the light.
Dying of the light
like meteors with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle there on that sad height
and rave at close of day.
Grave men near death
curse, bless me now into that good night.
And you, my father who see with blinding sight.
Because their word had forked no light
they wave by, crying how bright sang the sun in flight.
Blind eyes could blaze through wise men.
Rage. rage.
Wild men, who caught too late their end,
know dark is right
grieved on its way into that good night.
Good men, they learn at last their frail deeds might have.
Rage, rage into that good night.
Dance.
Do not go gentle.
Do not go gentle on your way
to the dying of the light.
Made in Bangladesh
a Child once asked his parents for a shirt
his parents said, "For sure."
and chained him to a sewing machine.
the shirt I wear has a tag in it,
I paid fourteen ninety-five for it.
it reads "Made in Bangladesh."
fourteen ninety-five is the most I would pay for it,
and the company is not willing to make any less profit,
which has nothing to do with that Child-slave, made in Bangladesh.
his parents said, "For sure."
and chained him to a sewing machine.
the shirt I wear has a tag in it,
I paid fourteen ninety-five for it.
it reads "Made in Bangladesh."
fourteen ninety-five is the most I would pay for it,
and the company is not willing to make any less profit,
which has nothing to do with that Child-slave, made in Bangladesh.
From Dust
His dignity they from him stripped
and tied him to a tree.
Left beaten, battered, pistol whipped,
my God! How can it be?
How can I love the ones that hate
the brother of a friend?
It was his life that they did take;
my heart they daily rend.
Who gives to men the right to thieve
the life from one of us?
Is it not God who has to grieve
when one returns to dust?
and tied him to a tree.
Left beaten, battered, pistol whipped,
my God! How can it be?
How can I love the ones that hate
the brother of a friend?
It was his life that they did take;
my heart they daily rend.
Who gives to men the right to thieve
the life from one of us?
Is it not God who has to grieve
when one returns to dust?
The Buzzard and the Crow
The young man gave up his air.
It seems pleasantly odd
to see them both carry a heart like yours.
That is, we could only fly just once.
Why yes it is very hard to fly,
but there is nothing out there for you to fear.
He is too heavy for me,
but I will try a bit further.
Steady brother.
Let’s take it a little at a time.
It seems pleasantly odd
to see them both carry a heart like yours.
That is, we could only fly just once.
Why yes it is very hard to fly,
but there is nothing out there for you to fear.
He is too heavy for me,
but I will try a bit further.
Steady brother.
Let’s take it a little at a time.
the absurdity of modernity
absurdly, we wait for twilight
forgetful, we circumambulate
ten thousand paper tigers descend
listlessly into her pallid world.
soporifically the children dance
as the light forsakes the day,
ocularly obsequious.
while luminescent boundaries
keep incandescent hopes at bay,
quiescent children rouse
to fight morning oblivion
by decollation
and rise again.
forgetful, we circumambulate
ten thousand paper tigers descend
listlessly into her pallid world.
soporifically the children dance
as the light forsakes the day,
ocularly obsequious.
while luminescent boundaries
keep incandescent hopes at bay,
quiescent children rouse
to fight morning oblivion
by decollation
and rise again.