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arisbeBab El, the Gate of God, fallen indeed,
The common tongue remembered, speaking of
Ancient forgotten mysteries, our creed.
Words come to their senses, even love.
I turn away from the cremation ground
That burns from summer's end to winter's start,
And walk, perplexed and soulsick all around
The cityscapes in which I lose my heart.
We build again, more humanly this time,
And mindful of the holy ground we tread.
I raise my little towers out of rhyme
Fearful lest something might be left unsaid.
For death, that took these quick, still waits for me
And I must earn my freedom to be free.
© 2002 FP Purcell
The common tongue remembered, speaking of
Ancient forgotten mysteries, our creed.
Words come to their senses, even love.
I turn away from the cremation ground
That burns from summer's end to winter's start,
And walk, perplexed and soulsick all around
The cityscapes in which I lose my heart.
We build again, more humanly this time,
And mindful of the holy ground we tread.
I raise my little towers out of rhyme
Fearful lest something might be left unsaid.
For death, that took these quick, still waits for me
And I must earn my freedom to be free.
© 2002 FP Purcell