102
what's o'clock
The speech of these voices has neither end nor beginning;
They are inter-riven as the colours of the sky
Over the graveyards of ten thousand generations.
They are inter-riven as the colours of the sky
Over the graveyards of ten thousand generations.
When we are as Nineveh, our white columns thrown and scattered,
Our dome of colours striped with the crawling of i sects,
Spotted with the thrust of damp clay—
Our words, our music, who will build a dome to hive them?
Th whose belly shall we come to life?
A new life,
Beyond submergence and destruction,
The implacable life of silent words,
Of tumultuous stillness of never-ceasing music,
Lost to being that so it may triumph
And become the blood and heat and urge
Our dome of colours striped with the crawling of i sects,
Spotted with the thrust of damp clay—
Our words, our music, who will build a dome to hive them?
Th whose belly shall we come to life?
A new life,
Beyond submergence and destruction,
The implacable life of silent words,
Of tumultuous stillness of never-ceasing music,
Lost to being that so it may triumph
And become the blood and heat and urge
