O rhyme me a sailor’s rhyme, rhyme me a lover’s rhyme, rhyme me a soldier’s rhyme:

ten thousand soldiers of light came marching out of the void, each with a little black book in his hands, singing:

here we are,

in the secret centers of stones,

having passed from the nervousness of what may be

to the certainty of what forever will have been;

(what will come to me,

at some red dawn,

when my roots are healthy,

and my branches green with springtime leaves?)

this is your cup overflowing

these are the waters gushing from your heart:

now come with me to the tombs, sweet man,

we shall let ashes be ashes,

we shall let blood be blood;

we shall let the coals of our hearts burn on without avail;

and we shall write our fathers an account

of just what their quickened sperm did in vain;