In days gone by
Of the lugubrious sort
There was a single tiding,
A slither of sunlight,
Broken through the clouds
That was so very inviting.

Hence, called the seamen
On long battling nights,
Staring up at the skies,


Their brows thick with sweat
And hearts tired with grief,
Welcoming the light with bold eyes.

So what does a mender,
A carpenter, a tailor,
do with something that
cannot be not fixed?
He carpents, and mends,
and a few other things,
using handsome needles and sticks.

The light has no boundary
The dark has no safety,
The sweetest fruits are found
In the softest troubles.
The tunnel is ruined
with holes of a kind
That kindles a fine sort of friend.

In sweetest nights strolling
And darker days too
When the bees buzz out
In discussion with the wind
We should think of the tired, humdrum
Turmoils that are brewing
And know that the seas
will surrender to divine murder.

Because in hasty old cars,
Or ugly black bars
The tidings of candies
Allure. And the
Unsuspecting guest is
Drawn out of his chair
Like a mouth-watering,
Lust-over-everything
Fool.

And though they may be true,
And the crickets chime for nothing,
The sunlight reveals what is right,
There can never be something
So fool-hardy and blowing
As the lies told in whispers in night.