If the reports (with all their oughts)
Are true,
If a wildness is vanished from the white,
And another wonder swallowed up
By our determined banality,
The greyness of the comfortable life,
Is the world bereft,
Another step in its long, slow grieving?
Do we conquer monsters with despair?
Is there room for play in the frozen wastelands?
Is there joy in the stark, dark night?
Do the Northern Lights sing mystery
For eyes that are not mine?
Loss and sorrow, the world’s long miserere,
The funeral march for springtime’s hopes and
dreams.
Only the listening ear can hear,
Pianissimo,
The single flute motif of all things new.
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