The Riddle

The Riddle

David James Westlake

This is the riddle of the owl

 

Of the man who weaves through the wool

The language, of a broken fool

Oh how I am cruel, so very cruel

To take from you

What was not mine?

Not a penny, But a silver dime,

And to throw it in the bin!

Forgive me father, is this the darkest sin?

It will be in these times

That we shall grow,

That we shall grow so big,

And overflow.

And make a swamp,

That feeds the crow.

And now the owl has come to say

Do not be afraid

Do not be afraid

For soon is the time

That I shall trickle down the serpent's spine.

It will be this day, it will be this day,

That I will say.

Rest your head, upon the sand

That the waves sweep in, upon the shore

Because today we will be sure

That there isn’t any more

But was there anything before?

For those like me, so much more,

So much more, forever more

Hour glasses broken, in our hands

We lay upon the beach, hands bleeding

Souls of bleach,

The same in everyone, and every each

Our souls will be free to go,

Can we really leave?

I do not know, I do not know!

Can we see the stars?

Can we wake them, with the morning sun?

No, you can not

You spent your life at your mother’s spoon,

And this is the time of midnight,

and the moon.

For those of the spirit of the owl,

Whose life’s where not and never so foul

You can come with me

You can come with me

I will show you the garden, and the tree,

They do not belong to me,

But forever with the trinity.

The trinity of symphony!

And finally we reach you,

Oh the world, morals of poor

With its bent back spines made of straw,

This world will have in store,

Nothing more, nothing more.

The Earth lays flat upon the floor.


Inspired by T.S Eliot