Sistres of the way-side bide their time in quiet peace,
await their place within the ring of calm;
still stand to turn in seconds of release,
await the call they know may never come.
In times of lightness, no intruder dared upon
to jeodardize the course, upset the run;
and all was joy and hands were raised toward the sun
as love in the halls of plenty overrun.
Still in their bliss unchallenged mighty feast,
unending dances shadowed on the day.
Within their walls, their daunting formless keep,
preserved their joy and kept their doubts at bay.
Faceless legions stood in readiness to weep,
just turn a cion, bring order to the fray;
and ev'rything is soon no sooner thought than deed,
but no one seemed to question anyway.
How keen the hunter's eye prevails upon the land
to seek the unsuspecting and the weak;
and powerless the fabled sat, too smug to lift a hand
toward the foe that threatened from the deep.
Who cares to dry the cheeks of those who saddened stand
adrift upon a sea of futile speech?
Where was your word, where did you go?
Where was your helping, where was your bow? Bow.
Dull is the armour, cold is the day.
Hard was the journey, dark was the way. Way.
I heard the word; I couldn't stay. Oh.
I couldn't stand it another day, another day-ay,
another day, another day.
Touched by the timely coming, roused from the keeper's sleep,
release the grip, throw down the key.
Held now within the knowing, rest now within the peace.
Take of the fruit, but guard the seed.