Arne Gustaf Swanberg ;-)


There once was a very old man who spake
Very hoarsely and carried a cane
He spake of a land far over the sea
And everyone thought him insane
His eyes were blue and glazed over with dreams
And his legs barely held up his frame
His mind, it was coming apart at the seams
And his breath he could hardly sustain
He spoke of a land where all things were good
And no one was ever at war
A place where all people at last understood
That life wasn't meant as a chore
Where no one departed the world because they
Could no longer put up with its sorrows
And everyone laughed and was merry and gay
And looked forward to future tomorrows
But then a dark cloud moved over that land,
He recounted to those who would hear,
The people forgot what they were happy about
Their faces turned blank and austere
They threw their featureless hands to the skies,
And howled with the terror they felt
They searched with their rat-like, hollowed-out eyes,
For something all happiness to melt
They learned how to craft the masks of the faces
That we carry with us today
They defamed their ancient dwelling-places
Or so the old man would say
But no one would listen, and no one would hear,
They wished that the cripple would just disappear,
And put on their masks and tore him apart
His rantings forever made silent; his heart
Dropped in an altar to gods that meant nothing
And forgotten like everything else...

But somewhere today, an old man walks,
In these lands, speaking of fantastic times,
To all those who'd listen, he stops and he talks
Until his death-knell chimes
He speaks of a land long, long ago
Where nobody carried a grudge
Nobody murdered and nobody cried
Nobody struggled, and nobody

Swan(berg)'s Penfeather
Written Material Copyright © 2000/2002 Arne Gustaf Swanberg
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Page Copyright © 2000-2004 E. Swanberg (optimized for MIE 5.x)
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