The wind is a cold winter 1984,
and the darkness of our world
hums many a bitter tune
reeking of old fragments
of steel and blood and bone...
I walk in these parts alone
a solitary figure of thought,
my clothes are made of words -
a strange idea.
The wind is a cold winter 1984,
and I walk amongst fragments of old lives
not knowing
who has passed this way before.
A still cold beauty resting
in the glassy silence
at the ending of the world.
Today - it could be any day -
has some die been cast
deep in the cosmic wherewithal
whereby
a man (it would be a man)
acts promptly, presses a button,
(red perhaps, and plastic),
and realizes some moments later
a fraction
of what he has achieved.
How final for some!
so clean, so quick,
No years of waiting,
No skulking in trenches,
No time for glory,
Not a moment to lose-
Just living..then away...
Tonight a still cold beauty,
a silver moon,
No firestorms.
The people are asleep
as their blind leaders
gather in misty corridors
catching the faint stink of fear
that issues from
grey and blue suits and uniforms,
Hastily concealed glands convey
uneasy memories
brushed aside
before incisive facts.
A red telephone rings-
two red faced angry old men
exchange bitter words
across the world.
"What are your people doing?"
"I don't understand..what do you mean?"
"Do you realize..?"
Somebody puts down
a red telephone receiver.
There is a long silence.
(A cold wind blows
down the corridors of power).
The game is up,
Facts must be faced,
Orders must be given.
The wind is a cold winter 1984
I walk in these parts alone
wondering if our children
have been born to become
burnt custard
glazed upon the walls.
Others can walk
without thinking..of the firestorm.
Is any blameful thought of use?
Is there any way to reach them
in the suits of mind,
in the citadels of self?
Any way that they
might recognise
the music of our lives
the harmony of the garden?
Tonight my clothes
are made of words,
transparent symbols and ideas,
Reversing the nightmare trend
is my order of the hour.
I would be glad
if the wind of death
shrieking from a million souls
were to cease
its murmuring plaintive whisper.
Evolution and afterwards index
John Stean