The Golden Dawn of a Twilight Year

In the endless choirs, the bells of new years day,

the ball slowly falling to the ground like a cheap dream

collapsing;

in the meadow behind the courthouse wall,

in the words so frail that they crumble in

mouths like too much flesh, rotted and rancid;

in the eye of a needle you can see it.

A land where all is just and equal, where women

pass freely, their words on their breasts

and where toil has been abolished in favor of truth and good fortune.

In this field all is free,

no black bodies with hair like mine

and eyes like mine face down before

the twisted fingers of the beast,

ready to cage all dreams and abandon faith with hands

that are not it's own. The world played

with strings of steel, no,

forget the white eyes of sorrow.

Forget all that should be remembered;

on New Years dance the night away

with spirits high with wine and pheromones,

lust and heartbreak,

you cannot take those with you.

The women will be free,

the animals will take flight,

the cages shall release the

orphans of a dream

to dawning's light,

a golden morning.

The bells ring foolish, blistering,

earsplitting but they can hear

you too.

When fools run the world the bells shall weep

and in the armaggedon of our days, they will

triumph.

Until then we must march;

until the women lose their girdles and

their hair is wild and new,

until the animals have found new homes in ancestral

forests, caves and trees untouched by man,

until my people have left this world and found

a hallway of kings, well above the foolish clouds

at the throne of a weeping nebula, tears

of joy throwing star showers for

an ebullient throng.

We must march: let the bells chime glory in our way.

In the golden dawn of a twilight age, we must

march until all mankind marches together.