The Wheatfields East of Eden
One Summer in the Sun
Candle in the music box,
spotlight upon the show,
light the paths which once were dark
aglow.
So ballerinas in the box,
will know which way to go.
For their summer in the sun,
one yawn before the winter's breath,
a ring of smoke blown through the gates
of nowhere.
And life, the beautiful nothing,
a brief candle for its own sake lit,
begins to blur, to fade,
another song from the record played.
Once so loud, and now a drawl,
becomes a whisper in the hall.
Once to live, to wonder why,
to rise and fall under the sky.
Summer rises;
summer sets.
One summer in the sun is all we get.
The sun to smile,
the sun to fade:
a single dash, between two dates,
poor written by the hands of fate.
One moment caught inside a bulb,
our destined hour to abide.
with all the living things trapped inside.
Lighting for but a moment,
snow scattered on the desert's dusty face—
glimmer in the hall and go their way.
One after another, into the sky for miles;
a blind caretaker, with a hammer,
forever walks the aisles.
His calloused feet to scratch the path,
to on occasion tap the glass—
releasing light back in the air,
to Saturn's seat without a care.
Destiny behind her veil will play,
with all us vessels on the waves.
Slaves to the lighthouse, in the rain,
Miss Destiny, the ball and chain;
until she folds, and counts her pay,
and, in silence, walks away.
No more moments from the box to take,
from the fountain by the waste.
Life, brief candle,
one summer in the sun.
Tomorrow and tomorrow,
then there are none.
Life itself, a momentary scream,
amidst the sea of nothing gleamed,
a murmur in the ivy by the well,
one verse in the narrator's Book of Tales.
The title of our story is,
"One Summer in the Sun,"
Tomorrow and tomorrow,
then they are done.
One chance to bloom,
one chance to shine;
to rise and fall under the sky.
One summer in the sun in winter's way,
a brief season our life’s passage does delay.
All of those who to the light have went,
when their pocket watch of time is spent,
like moths, turn brittle in the air,
and silent strike the ground.
The sun rises.
The sun sets.
A summer in the sun,
and then no sound.
The finish line, same as the start,
oh what a nobody has in his heart.
A thousand roads to nowhere,
lost highways to the sun.
The finish line is the same place,
the human race begun.
And in that race together,
we all finish last;
those faceless watcher's, in the crowd,
recline their heads and laugh.
Again and again, the cars go in,
desperate circles round and round.
Sometimes they brush against each other,
but seldom make a sound.
And blind they pass each other by,
in a tempest tossed around.
Before the blind man, with his hammer,
turns to face your aisle,
laugh with the best of them, and smile.
And this is just graffiti,
scrawled on time's unending walls,
by no one left for nobody,
a fragment in the stall.
Tangles in the Earth's coiffure,
for life, our limited time offer.
And the human condition,
the same remains—
never heals and stays the same.
Another verse, another song,
like an old-time sing-along,
by pebbles lost in sand and foam,
who sing alone, and murmur make,
while they their ride on the carousel take.
And then they sleep, once more to dream—
of all the things that flashed by the
screen:
patterns in the ivy and their seams,
an arabesque oft told before,
of those who run blind on the shore.
With all of them on their way to see,
the Wizard of Oz for empathy;
the highway is long, how awful to know—
the door at the end of the road is closed.
Let the hands wind up another,
song for the music box.
And let the shadow shapes around the
candle,
play till the melody stops.
By candlelight or dark of night,
their path forever paved;
every second of their life,
the same sad song is played.
Again and again, we figurines spin,
a lullaby loud for no one to hear,
turns static into silence, fades,
as dust upon a mirror.
Another poor player, whose hour forgot,
those passionate words on the stage.
Another soliloquy, the sound and the
fury,
bit player lines erased.
Characters live; characters lie.
Some do nothing, instead wonder why.
All of them are together lost,
together to laugh and to cry.
Some of them love,
and some of them hate;
some look out, some in.
For a moment fleeting contact made,
another to begin.
There's no such thing yesterday,
no tomorrow, and no then—
just a now that never ends.
spotlight upon the show,
light the paths which once were dark
aglow.
So ballerinas in the box,
will know which way to go.
For their summer in the sun,
one yawn before the winter's breath,
a ring of smoke blown through the gates
of nowhere.
And life, the beautiful nothing,
a brief candle for its own sake lit,
begins to blur, to fade,
another song from the record played.
Once so loud, and now a drawl,
becomes a whisper in the hall.
Once to live, to wonder why,
to rise and fall under the sky.
Summer rises;
summer sets.
One summer in the sun is all we get.
The sun to smile,
the sun to fade:
a single dash, between two dates,
poor written by the hands of fate.
One moment caught inside a bulb,
our destined hour to abide.
with all the living things trapped inside.
Lighting for but a moment,
snow scattered on the desert's dusty face—
glimmer in the hall and go their way.
One after another, into the sky for miles;
a blind caretaker, with a hammer,
forever walks the aisles.
His calloused feet to scratch the path,
to on occasion tap the glass—
releasing light back in the air,
to Saturn's seat without a care.
Destiny behind her veil will play,
with all us vessels on the waves.
Slaves to the lighthouse, in the rain,
Miss Destiny, the ball and chain;
until she folds, and counts her pay,
and, in silence, walks away.
No more moments from the box to take,
from the fountain by the waste.
Life, brief candle,
one summer in the sun.
Tomorrow and tomorrow,
then there are none.
Life itself, a momentary scream,
amidst the sea of nothing gleamed,
a murmur in the ivy by the well,
one verse in the narrator's Book of Tales.
The title of our story is,
"One Summer in the Sun,"
Tomorrow and tomorrow,
then they are done.
One chance to bloom,
one chance to shine;
to rise and fall under the sky.
One summer in the sun in winter's way,
a brief season our life’s passage does delay.
All of those who to the light have went,
when their pocket watch of time is spent,
like moths, turn brittle in the air,
and silent strike the ground.
The sun rises.
The sun sets.
A summer in the sun,
and then no sound.
The finish line, same as the start,
oh what a nobody has in his heart.
A thousand roads to nowhere,
lost highways to the sun.
The finish line is the same place,
the human race begun.
And in that race together,
we all finish last;
those faceless watcher's, in the crowd,
recline their heads and laugh.
Again and again, the cars go in,
desperate circles round and round.
Sometimes they brush against each other,
but seldom make a sound.
And blind they pass each other by,
in a tempest tossed around.
Before the blind man, with his hammer,
turns to face your aisle,
laugh with the best of them, and smile.
And this is just graffiti,
scrawled on time's unending walls,
by no one left for nobody,
a fragment in the stall.
Tangles in the Earth's coiffure,
for life, our limited time offer.
And the human condition,
the same remains—
never heals and stays the same.
Another verse, another song,
like an old-time sing-along,
by pebbles lost in sand and foam,
who sing alone, and murmur make,
while they their ride on the carousel take.
And then they sleep, once more to dream—
of all the things that flashed by the
screen:
patterns in the ivy and their seams,
an arabesque oft told before,
of those who run blind on the shore.
With all of them on their way to see,
the Wizard of Oz for empathy;
the highway is long, how awful to know—
the door at the end of the road is closed.
Let the hands wind up another,
song for the music box.
And let the shadow shapes around the
candle,
play till the melody stops.
By candlelight or dark of night,
their path forever paved;
every second of their life,
the same sad song is played.
Again and again, we figurines spin,
a lullaby loud for no one to hear,
turns static into silence, fades,
as dust upon a mirror.
Another poor player, whose hour forgot,
those passionate words on the stage.
Another soliloquy, the sound and the
fury,
bit player lines erased.
Characters live; characters lie.
Some do nothing, instead wonder why.
All of them are together lost,
together to laugh and to cry.
Some of them love,
and some of them hate;
some look out, some in.
For a moment fleeting contact made,
another to begin.
There's no such thing yesterday,
no tomorrow, and no then—
just a now that never ends.