How did you break the lion?

When I heard you broke the Lion,
I walked slowly home, over the hills,
down to the valley, across the grass lands
to the door where, turning the key,
the grief struck me down.

When I thought about the Lion,
bound, broken and bleeding,
well, the grief struck me down
and my heart fell to the floor, weeping.

And I wonder, yes, I wonder,
how'd you break the Lion?

When word got out about the Lion,
the whole town was stood still in its tracks
staring sadly at their hands.
Each turned to the other but the other could see
that words were gone from the land.

Then a little boy came out from 'mongst the many
treading light upon the earth
wet with tears of disbelief and grief.
His hair shone bright like truth in the dark
and his lips, they moved so slowly as he said,

"I know, yes, I know
"how they broke the Lion.

"They drop by drop smuggled an ocean of grief into his lair,
"so slow, so subtle, neither he nor we noticed his mounting despair.
"The tears welled up within the walls of love built for his Pride
"so that everything dear to him held therein was soaked, sodden and ruined;
"everything dear to him was gone."

And I wonder, oh now I only wonder,
why break the Lion at all?

 

The thorn in her finger

He makes hard for the river,
for the shelter of the old willow tree.
He breathes harsh, he breathes shallow,
as he runs through the rain,
as the rain runs him through.

She's a slave to the weather
and the night shrouds the thorn from her eyes.
To it her paw she delivers:
her blood runs a river,
her howl sends a shiver.

Involuntarily,
he stops dead and rethinks his approach
and the fear makes him wonder
if it's the pan to the fire.
The jaws of the lion

are clenched in concentration
to avoid losing all of her cool.
But the thorn robs her' reason
and she gnashes at the night
and she shrieks at the shadows.

The night holds its secrets from him.
By not a star can he discover his way.
Till lightning strikes him lucky
and he spies out the sanctuary
and runs for its safety.

She approaches home herself now.
Curiosity awaits at its mouth
but the pain rules her mind now,
so that she fails to realise
the presence of the other,

who shudders at the horror
of the vision cast against his escape.
And as darkness re-engulfs him,
little could he wonder,
as he searches for his gods

that the true intent of her
could not be further from so natural an act
and she beckons and she whimpers
so that finally he sees it
and, gingerly approaching,

he plucks the thorn from her finger.

 

Howl

Under the burning, bright, bastard moon he staggers and he sways.
Over the cane fields bathed in silver.

He flays and wheels and tumbles as though fending off a horde
but the beasts with which he's burdened disturb not a blade.

Under the burning moon, out under stars,
raging on solitude, all to his own.

The sky seems to be falling in on him
and the host calls out his name, howling out in glee.

Here in the burning light, shadows they play.
Walls of a fortress and here a charade.

As he counts his virtues on one hand he is secretly afraid
that a trumped up lion tamer may ruin his game.

Standing on solid ground, floating on air.
Truth is his witness but walked away.

The sky seems to be falling in on him
and the host calls out his name, howling out in glee.

Born of a broken line, bathed in blood.
Built of a privilege yet blaming his veins.

He bade them all take heed now, take heed of his tale,
but the mood turned when somebody asked him his name.

The sky seems to be falling in on him
and the host calls out his name, howling out in glee.

 

Waiting for her

Rosebuds in the afternoon. Red tulips for days.
Bees wait patiently as the seasons change
and I sit, already sweltering, here in the shade

waiting for her.

The sun sets and the brains, they are full,
but the halls are silent and empty now.
The houses burn and the voices, they cry out,

"No! No! Bring back our girls to us!" They plead,
"No, no, no, no, no, PLEASE don't leave us waiting here!"

Waiting for her.

A hand through a green bouquet. Freshly mown grass.
My eyes slide lazily over orchards of orchids
and my sense of smells trembles with my heartbeat,

waiting for her.

The doors allow a grave mistake in
with the innocent, the unworthy and the soon-to-be-judged.
And the boy, he has no fear except for the word. The people plead,

"No! No! Don't put that gun in his hands!" They cry,
"No, no, no, no, no, PLEASE! We never once heard her name!"

Waiting for her.

 

Little Bird

My little bird where have you gone, now? Whole hours have I sat with this seed in my hand and still no sign I see of you, my little bird. What could've become of you? Turning this seed in my hand with my eyes on the sky I breathe in and out in turn and worry, little bird. Has danger befallen you? Or have you forsaken me or this park or the whole town together for the wide, open air where, little bird, O! wild and beastly - all alone - well, you'll surely - no, I won't! I can't afford to think of that anymore!

I hate it all the time, I hate this all of the time, you know I do: I hate me so much more when I'm alone.
The feeling of you when you're gone, the burden of empty days on end,
the turning earth upset me less when you were around, my little bird.

I've forgotten the days, now. Were they hours passing by so slowly or minutes turned to ice, my little bird? Turn these hours back into days again for me! Turn the clock back, come join me, come feast on my seed, what little I could afford. I know, my little bird, no, it's not exactly the expensive kind. And sure if I really wanted to find you I could rise from my seat and go wondering 'bout the park but, little bird! O! forlorn and tragic and heavy-hand static I just don't know if I can face it out there alone!

I hate it all the time, I hate this all of the time, you know I do: I hate me so much more when I'm alone.
The feeling of you when you're gone, the burden of empty days on end,
the turning earth was so much easier to bare with you around, my little bird.