Hostile Congregation.
A man there is; he has not sung.
Days that come; Who allows him to sing?
Of signs and things of comings to be let him sing.
Only a generous one refuses to hear what's sung.
Through the language of man a brighter day comes.
Slowly closing; warming in praise it transfigures.
Slaughtering the Turba ingeniously with word.
In the deepest parts it rises up against his song.
It will cause the dead alive to walk upright.
The alive to fall asleep, only to survive.
A pity, he sings, a pity he sings, tomorrows are gone.
We sing now for a Hostile Congregation.
In ages to ages others sing in harmony too.
So boil the oils to forge your iron;
raise the stones against your own backs.
Ages to ages the custom has been tempered.
A national tongue you understand all too well.
But let him sing, let him sing aloud.
Let the echoes change the theme to laughter.
And laugh they will; they will only hear embitterment.
Three score more is the earthly scene portrayed.
A hundred to one; so say the kings.
A thousand servants to the congregation sing.
Ten thousand heard; only a few came.
A man there is; let him sing.
No fluctuation in verse; the bell has rung.
A man there is; it has begun.
The wind brings denouements verse to hear.
The Tree's describe the poetic virtue to proceed.
Mediocrity moves in and ceases in fire.
Sing to the sea which is alive and pleasant.
Sing to the sky which fills us alive.
Sing to the soul vigilant and sound.
Sing concerning fire actively pushed aside.
How many rivers there are; how many streams?
How many fowl; those feathery things?
How many pillars arisen to shatter asunder?
A man there is; or does it matter?
Consider this before you go to regulate.
The speculation of not hearing a single bell rung;
or imagination as it unfolds and measures in agreement.
A bowl full of mush is still a bowl full of mush.
It passes as quickly as the day resides.
He that keeps his tent standing in a storm,
is the same that came and sang at your side.
A.o.R.
