on ordinary passage

the voices that are loudest in the dark

need not be those on which we must depend

call on a hope that’s ample and not stark

 

for which new voyage when we first embark

there’s no clear meaning that we could intend

the voices which are loudest in the dark

 

are not the ones we first set out to mark

on whose loud booming our thoughts would perpend

call on a hope that’s ample and not stark

 

that is the task of scholar priest and clerk

here now to master each unworldly trend

the voices that are loudest in the dark

 

will not be those who cannot just remark

on ordinary passage they must bend

call on a hope that’s ample and not stark

 

allow the motion to ignite a spark

of true humanity before the end

the voices that are loudest in the dark

call on a hope that’s ample and not stark

through the middle air

impossible to miss that shining blue

the eye drawn outward to the furthest bound

where sense and vision come together drowned

in the immensity of that deep hue

where worlds and hopes are both slightly askew

some better wisdom is what we have found

where other souls in torment run aground

justice may grant an option to renew

no mind’s enough to catch at all we need

for this long voyage through the middle air

though patience grants a chance to set all right

when each has found some soil to plant a seed

and seen it nurtured given proper care

allowed to shoot its blossom into light

the centre of the world

at istanbul the line is swift

faces are warm the world is here

we have the journey as our gift

 

all landed safe none cast adrift

no crisis left to engineer

at istanbul the line is swift

 

we’re moved along all hearts must lift

as each direction comes out clear

we have the journey as our gift

 

no simple one so for our thrift

we’ve been repaid and very dear

at istanbul the line is swift

 

but none can say that they’ve been stiffed

as cost of entry will appear

we have the journey as our gift

 

though we come far and have to sift

through memories made everywhere

at istanbul the line is swift

we have the journey as our gift

starlit time

no accident of language catches quite

the changing shades of meaning that reflect

not what is said but what we could reject

if well presented to our proper sight

but when we take as given in due right

and not as secrets of some hidden sect

they are the matters we have truly checked

and we are lost deep in the summer night

yet no one wonders at the altered state

nor at the clash of symbols that is seen

by those few waking through the starlit time

eager  to find a different sort of fate

but not to learn just what it ought to mean

nor yet the purpose of the long hard climb

the morning chime

fearful and waking is no normal state

but leaden hours induce no better heat

than mental light and thoughts of long defeat

in bitter summer we’re past the first gate

deep into the dark country bearing freight

of so much history still incomplete

all of it human both truth and deceit

all to requirement but none of it fate

so measure that we find the true belief

is what we know and give to all our folk

upon their waking to the morning chime

of bells that have not known a moment’s grief

but ring the ending of inhuman yoke

and bid us all achieve a better time

the true republic

the true republic lies beneath the sea

a single bound will take you straightway there

it’s our first homeland where we were born free

 

look where the master will not let you see

far past the fictive kingdoms of the air

the true republic lies beneath the sea

 

no effort’s needed for each one to flee

just leave right now and be at ease from care

it’s our first homeland where we were born free

 

where we learnt justice at our mother’s knee

return’ so easy we just have to dare

the true republic lies beneath the sea

 

not far at all we note the mango tree

the purple bloom the old man on his chair

it’s our first homeland where we were born free

 

the place of order where we long to be

and it is simple to end the affair

the true republic lies beneath the sea

it’s our first homeland where we were born free

the seeking eye

the seeking eye that even seems to speak

of urgent matters at an early time

is the best weapon wielded by the weak

 

not in the option given to the meek

to keep heads lowered as the sweet bells chime

the seeking eye that even seems to speak

 

looks through a wall apparently unique

but hidden in its recesses and grime

is the best weapon wielded by the weak

 

a simple tool not modern nor antique

whose users have come under in their prime

the seeking eye that even seems to speak

 

and not been frighted they are past critique

able to know just where in the long climb

is the best weapon wielded by the weak

 

those who are able find they are to peek

in hidden places for the true sublime

the seeking eye that even seems to speak

is the best weapon wielded by the weak

a better kind of tale

a missionary aching to be done

with all the trappings of the muddy past

shed the sad history as a worm its cast

be new and happy in the springtime sun

we know who has this and there is not one

secure or guarded from the sullen blast

of deep-felt hatred striking at the last

signs of old story shouting out they’ve won

there are some means of easing the old ire

of turning rage back into wholesome ways

of decent living yet we watch each fail

as all our truths are cast into the fire

just so a new world can face different days

and there can be a better kind of tale

o povo é quem mais ordena

no one this day shall say they stood aloof

when the new rose first came into fresh flower

and none dared crush the bloom beneath a hoof

 

we would have faced a certain harsh reproof

no long before but all changed in an hour

no one this day shall say they stood aloof

 

nor that the entire fabric warp and woof

had stayed the same new blossom in each bower

and none dared crush the bloom beneath a hoof

 

for fear of learning just how great the goof

would harm the doer dread would them devour

no one this day shall say they stood aloof

 

the acts are real we see that there’s no spoof

of change or meaning the old world we scour

and none dared crush the bloom beneath a hoof

 

today we saw the crowds from every roof

acclaim as honour took the seat of power

no one this day shall say they stood aloof

and none dared crush the bloom beneath a hoof

for all some light

there are no answers but the simple fact

that we have asked will make some things more clear

even to those for whom the worlds appear

as cheap illusions or as the abstract

daubings of visions that might not attract

the subtler gaze here in this colder air

what we must ask is that the wise compare

the truths of things and then that they just act

not all who reach this place have learnt to look

at the right angles where they might discern

those matters not for ordinary sight

yet what we find in not so secret book

for those who have the time truly to learn

is that there is each day for all some light