Little Towns
There's nothing new beneath the sun
in the place where you were born;
victories are won
while hearts are always torn.
The merchants buy and sell,
lovers laugh and wed,
infants play and cry,
and soon they'll all be dead.
Some children will always be
led by a distant call,
some apples on the tree
will grow up where they fall.
Soldiers still march to war
where one by one they die
and when they are brought back
their mothers always cry.
There's a sorrow and a love
no stoic face can hide,
something much like loss,
something quite like pride.
The hypocrites will gather
in church and school and square
and snipe at little failings
with judgments not quite fair.
Rumor's the only goddess
immortal in her kind,
and gossip in her train
brings up the tale behind.
Yes, times will always change,
but this can still be sworn:
nothing new is beneath the sun
in the town where you were born.
Cats Always Daydream
Cats always daydream.
With distracted stares
they muse in daze and doze
and dream of what's not there.
They move their minds near madness,
and on the margins of the sane
they contemplate your doings
with visions in their brains.
Cats always daydream.
They think in dreamer's style
and plan and scheme for ages
behind their little smiles.
Solitary
In the coverts of the stairs, my dove,
in secret recesses and clefts you hide;
let me see you, let me hear your voice.
Your voice is sweet and you are lovely;
like sudden sunrise be light to me
that I may browse among your lilies
until shadows lengthen in cool evening
and I leap on the myrrh-bearing mountains.
