THE BELLS OF ST. GENEVIEVE
It's five a.m. somewhere again.
Nothing sounds but dark birdcalls
and the failing moon - sunk low
now on a crooked dawn horizon.
Soon to be - light, and another
brand new day. An hour or so off,
I know the bells will ring as I am
walking by. I'll try to listen smartly,
but, as usual, I'll be captured by the
attention of something else - a new
bird on the wing, some seam of light
forking over the arch where the
cemetery bends, or the lowly roar
of some slowly departing truck.
It always seems I am so alone :
no one listens, no one talks.
I live in a brazen solitude of
the sad with the quiet.
Everyday, almost
the same.
Nothing sounds but dark birdcalls
and the failing moon - sunk low
now on a crooked dawn horizon.
Soon to be - light, and another
brand new day. An hour or so off,
I know the bells will ring as I am
walking by. I'll try to listen smartly,
but, as usual, I'll be captured by the
attention of something else - a new
bird on the wing, some seam of light
forking over the arch where the
cemetery bends, or the lowly roar
of some slowly departing truck.
It always seems I am so alone :
no one listens, no one talks.
I live in a brazen solitude of
the sad with the quiet.
Everyday, almost
the same.
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