Hope

The poetes mauvais, he hates to gloom, are they made of clay, these are their bones, in place of his blood, each time he's alone, has gone back to slay, an old unwritten rule, promised him every day, evening fades the Domes, traces this lonely fruit, he faces night alone, aching for a child I say, what we have to do, ie seize time anyway, birdsong early morning, it's a poor fool, to ignore their warning, maybe I have to state, they hold onto you, get them out the way, give life our due.