In the devant-jour quiet, before the sun comes over
the shoulder of the world
there is no prayer; I gave up the going down on knees
in the morning of a world in flower;
when a thousand flowers dared to blossom, and somewhere
in a field of disparate ideas
we sought to gather the colours that would paint
a brave new world.
But how the vision ages with us
to the same old sameness!
In the devant-jour hours on the cusp of a bleak day,
blown petals of hope ungathered,
vinous tears of a generation run profusely
on the sodden cheeks of earth, no fingered beads
repeat our sacrilegious faith
the world still waits
for a new greening, some other rhythm,
a blossoming beyond the algorithms
of those who have written
this future
In the devant-jour quiet, this frayed future
that despite the bombast of new paradigms
perpetuates the seasons of the past,
a strange drought of spirit, a welling of tears
dispersed like wine, like blood spilled
from this drought-cracked carafe this broken day.
in the devant-jour disquiet before the sun comes over
the shoulder of the world
there is no prayer,
there is no prayer…