To Pay the Ferryman

Chill is the morning, bright is the snow,
Diamonds, the eyes in the beaks of the crows.
Weak is the winter sun, squeamish to show
The red streak that lies on the forest like fire
And harsh is the wind,
As it plucks on the strings
Of the tall pines which make up its lyre.

Awake, Aeolian harp, and sing!
No longer can mankind put stops on your strings.
Arise now, Stygian muse, and bring
An ending to stories begun.

Blank are the windows, empty the doors,
But living, the lifts that still leap between floors
Where no hands push buttons to summon them forth.
Alarms are the sigh of the world as it spins;
It softly laments
A foolish while spent
Wearing jewellery that ate at its skin.

Awake, Aeolian harp, and sing!
No gemstones now glitter the song of the winds.
Arise now, Stygian muse, and bring
An ending to stories begun.

…and now it breaks down, where is our
Our form and grace our endless
Endless poise and style our
Pearls and wine and computers do we even
We shine and glisten but do we even
Know how to make a fire out of strings and wood?
I have to say I’m not feeling very confident.
There seem to be crows circling.
I have to say that I’m quite confused by
By this assemblage of
Wire and sticks in my hand.
I have to say that it is getting very, very cold.
I am not sure
We know what to do.

Distort, Aeolian harp, and break!
Or stay, to sing gently for nobody‘s sake.
Embark now, Stygian muse, and take
These jewels to the distant shore.

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