Those eastern clouds glide through the heavens
slipping across eye and mind and mouth
and it unfurls like the empty shroud of longing
blank scroll of heaven all rolled out.
The hand brought down, the voice unspoken
a devil’s eye in the window
no trick of tongue, no magic token
just clouds above and worms below.
Low my ambition, narrow is my art
clouded is my vision, narrow is my art
O Anna don’t you hear that low voice calling from the wings
as you rise up to join in heaven’s silent hymns.
Let’s not dwell upon the tooth that cracks our bones below
just lift your voice free from the tyranny of dreams —
don’t go slow.
But down here things are vague as ever
dreams like soup and thoughts like dough
the windowpane is cracked and dimming
what lies beyond god only knows.
Low is my ambition, narrow is my art
clouded is my vision, narrow is my art.
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